Definitions
by JustlikeWater
Summary: "Everything has a definition, an unchanging, consistent meaning. But once again John proves to be the exception to all of Sherlock's neat, tidy logic. Because the one thing he cannot define, the one thing that refuses to be neatly categorized and stowed away for later use, is John."
1. Of Questions and Confusion

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its fabulous characters.**

**A/N: So, it's been a while! Life has just been so hectic lately that I've barely had the chance to get my hands on a keyboard, let alone write out a whole new story. In the past few months I discovered BBC's "Sherlock", thought it was absolutely amazing, and then proceeded to become completely obsessed. One particular aspect of the fandom that caught my eye was, understandably, the match-made-in-heaven couple, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I simply could not resist writing a fanfic for them. **

**Anyway: Here is the first part of the story. Part 2 will be posted within at least the next two weeks, depending on how much free time I have between now and then. ****Being that this is my first non-Harry potter fan fiction, I'm a bit nervous about how it will be received, so **feedback and criticism would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

* * *

Sherlock knew from the moment he entered the room that something about this man was different; something in his clothes, his stance, his gait; the way he stood tall and proud like a soldier but radiated soft, unyielding compassion like a doctor. He only vaguely registered that Mike had brought him here as a potential flat mate, because his mind was too preoccupied with deducing all of the complexities and intricacies of the man called John Watson. It was immediately apparent that wherever he'd served – Afghanistan or Iraq – he had not left willingly; clearly an injury and judging by the self conscious way he continued to rub his left shoulder, a bullet wound. An ugly one at that; something he would only allow the most trusted people to see.

(Midway through deducing Sherlock's mind halted because he found himself with the irrational desire to be one of those people and see the wound, and that was such a ridiculous thought that it took him a second to recollect himself and continue)

His phone was obviously a gift from a family member – "Harry" was engraved in its case, so clearly a brother – but all was not well between them, otherwise why would he be searching for a flat mate when he had a perfectly well sibling to offer dwelling arrangements? Ah. His brother was an alcoholic, then; that much was evident from the fumbled scratches on the phone's charging outlet. As for character, John was a typical, charismatic, easy-going bloke that laughed when jokes weren't funny to save someone the embarrassment and pretended all was well to spare a mate the trouble. He was the kind to remember birthdays and charm a girl's parents and fondly ruffle a small child's hair. He _should_ have been boring to Sherlock because of all his normality. He should've become an irrelevant bundle of facts once the deductions had been made, much like the others had, but something made Sherlock pause.

Right beneath the surface, directly underneath John's polite smiles and steady stride, there was a spark of something familiar; something Sherlock had seen in his own eyes and seldom in any one else's.

_The love of danger._

It was the addiction to the intoxicating rush of chasing criminals down dark alleyways or, in John's case, dressing a possibly fatal wound in the middle of a warzone with limited supplies and finite time and hands that had to be steady otherwise those feeble stitches would tear. It was the craving for piecing together clues to solve the puzzles to find the criminal and emerge victorious or saving someone's life in a world shrouded in death and feeling as if, for that one moment, it would all be worth it just to see this young man live.

Now that he knew what to look for, he could practically feel it radiating from John's skin. The want for danger, the need for the chase; the _lust _for excitement. And dull, insipid citizen life had none of those things that John craved; Sherlock knew the feeling all too well. This specific brand of restlessness created a busy, electric hum that vibrated in the nerves and reverberated throughout the mind as a result of inactivity. It was the same unrest that Sherlock felt when there were no cases, no murders, nothing to solve or fix or find or busy himself with.

John's hands shook but it was not from anxiety or trauma – as he knew John's therapist had diagnosed – it was from _longing. _He missed the war in all of its perilous allure.

In Sherlock's opinion that made him one of the most interesting men in London. (And his was the only opinion that really counted, anyway)

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He questioned, casually, as if inquiring about the store he'd purchased his shoes from.

John straightened and stared at him, head tilted slightly to the left in question. "Afghanistan. How'd you know that?"

And so Sherlock explained in a long stream of observations and conclusions, hardly stopping to take a breath and not even bothering to look at John while he did so. The entire time he remained hunched over his microscope, examining a slide of coagulated saliva. Once he'd finished, the room fell into silence and he found himself reluctant to look back up at John. Usually people glared at him, called him a freak or a stalker or worse, for reducing their lives to facts and coldly spoken data. Despite what he saw in John, he wasn't entirely certain he'd be any different from the others in this regard. As the seconds ticked by, it was becoming increasingly more likely that he would call him a nosy git and storm off, dashing any chance Sherlock had at getting a decent flat mate.

_Damn. _He really should have been more tactful. Of _course_ John wouldn't want to be picked apart like that; he was a proud soldier after all and probably valued his privacy. Sherlock felt a deep, achingly familiar sense of dread shroud him, because any second now John was going to leave and all of his potential and interesting qualities would leave with him. Sherlock would, once again, be alone with Mycroft and the goldfish.

He finally dared to glance up, fully prepared to form a stiff apology and goodbye, but he saw something so unexpected that his mind was wiped entirely blank and the words died on his lips.

John was _smiling._

"That was…amazing. That was bloody _brilliant_," John said at last, voice filled unabashedly with awe. He grinned and gripped the edge of the counter as if the sheer force of Sherlockian wonder made it difficult to remain steady.

Sherlock's pale eyes immediately searched John's for any semblance of dishonesty or sarcasm. But, no, there was just…amazement. John maintained a dazzling smile under his scrutiny, eyes bright with interest and marvel, and Sherlock quickly decided that John meant what he said. He felt his face heat at the unexpected – and absolutely rare – appreciation. He looked away, suddenly awkward.

"Was it?" He asked slowly, because a part of him still had doubts.

John smiled easily and nodded. He looked a bit bewildered, though, as if the fact that Sherlock needed affirmation on this was ridiculous because it was so obvious. "Yes, of course it was,"

And at that, Sherlock's shoulders relaxed and the tension left his form.

Minutes later, Sherlock enigmatically made arrangements for them to look at a flat, knowing full well John would be intrigued enough to go despite the vague details, before officially introducing himself in such a lavish, melodramatic fashion that he was sure his name would be etched into John's memory as long as he lived.

_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street._ For some reason he even had the gall to _wink._

Then he exited with a theatrical swish of his black coat and waited at 221b for John's inevitable arrival.

* * *

John Watson managed to change his mind that day, and he continues to do so from every moment onward. This frustrates Sherlock because he is rarely wrong; _especially_ not about basic absolutions such as the fact that people are idiots. Yet, somehow, John proves him incorrect again and again, continuously shattering his previously unshakable views of the world.

People are basically selfish and cruel, which he quickly learned upon entering primary school and promptly being called freak. Yet _John_ is the kindest, most selfless man he knows.

People despise him for his mind, for his intelligence and skill, and take every opportunity to attempt to bring him down. Yet _John_ offers only praise and admiration when he displays his genius.

People always leave; they only stay as long as is convenient for them and then they go. Yet_ John_ has provided steadfast company at 221b and does not appear to want to leave any time soon. He is constant; he is _dependable._

People are stupid and dull. Yet _John_ is clever, albeit in a more subdued way than Sherlock. He is far more intelligent that Sherlock believes he is aware of, and there are moments when he sees John's own brand of genius shine through in the form of a shrewdly phrased question or seemingly pointless, but ultimately vital, observation.

_John _appears to be the loophole to everything he knows about people. As small, blonde speck within the fine print, if you will.

Sherlock prides himself on his vast knowledge and endless reserves of logic and reason. He relishes that he can hear a word like _pseudopseudohypoparathyroidism _and effortlessly explain that it is a medical condition in which one's blood contains normal levels of phosphorus and calcium. He finds comfort in the fact that he can name all of the bones in the human hand as easily as some might recite the alphabet; _Distal phalange, proximal phalange, trapezium, trapezoid, scaphoid, ulna, etcetera. _Give him a puzzle and he'll solve it in the time it takes you to raise an expectant brow. Tell him a handful of vague details and he'll piece together entire crime scenes. Spout a random word and he'll promptly define it.

_Electroencephalograph: noun; an instrument for measuring the brain's electric impulses_

_Ichthyophthalmite: noun; a hydrous silicate of calcium and potassium relating to zeolites_

His head is constantly swimming with information, facts, equations, theories, all swirling around in a whirlpool of endless thought. All sorts of knowledge, from the number of skin cells on the pad of one's thumb to the periodic table, bounce ceaselessly around inside his skull and he _loves_ it.

_There are 206 bones in the human body even though at birth there are 300. This is due to the fact that by the time the average person reaches adulthood many of the bones have fused together. _

_The chemical equation of cellular respiration is C6 H12 O6+6O2 6CO2+6H2O._

He takes all of those facts, all of that knowledge, and he holds them close like a treasure, like a shield, like a security blanket, because knowledge never fails him. Puzzles can always be solved and equations will always have an answer. He seeks and finds comfort in the steady absolution of facts. _Everything_ has a definition, an unchanging, consistent meaning.

But, once again, _John_ proves to be the exception to all of his neat, tidy logic.

Because the one thing he cannot define, the one thing that refuses to be neatly categorized and stowed away for later use, is _John._

Yes, Sherlock knows exactly how many bones John has in his foot, the amount of blood that pulses through his entire body at any given moment, and the intricate, weaving map of veins and tendons and muscles that stretch across the expanse of his form like a red-and-blue lined road map. He knows when John went to bed judging by where the handle of his mug is facing in the morning and the current status of his dating life by the way he knots his shoelaces. He knows that John served as an army doctor in Afghanistan, has an estranged sister, prefers no sugar in his tea, possesses an ungodly amount of jumpers, despises talk shows, loves the thrill of the chase just as much as he, and staunchly refuses to cancel plans if he's promised that he will go. Sherlock knows all of this about John, so he _should_ be able to construct a decent definition and just be done with it.

But the problem is John is always changing. Well, not changing so much as shifting: turning a certain way or saying a certain thing that adds yet anther layer to Sherlock's idea of him.

Some days he is every part doctor, when he scolds Sherlock for some careless experiment or another as he carefully blots at the resulting wound with a damp cloth, going on about why explosive chemicals and thin glass beakers ought not to be mixed. But if Sherlock winces because of either the peroxide or force of the blotting, John's eyes soften with concern and he stops to see if he's okay.

Other times, he is steadfastly loyal. When Donovan says something snide _No one likes you, freak, _John straightens, shoulders back and chin high like a man preparing for battle, and makes a point of clapping Sherlock's shoulder and starting a conversation with his focus undividedly on him as if to say _I do; I like him. _And as they walk away, engrossed in their subject because it's undoubtedly more interesting than Donovan's _drivel_, John makes sure to shoot an unpleasant look at her, just so she knows her opinions are not welcome.

When they run down the dark alleyways, splashing through black puddles and hopping haphazardly over rubbish bins, Sherlock sees a side of John that is reckless, adventurous, clever, quick-thinking, and hopelessly addicted to the rush of danger. When they stop chasing the man or running away from the man – whichever; they've done both equally often – and they are hunched over, hands on their knees, breathing hard into the night air, Sherlock steals a glance at John and finds his eyes glowing with delirious excitement that is so bright it's nearly blinding. His shining eyes are like the blue, smoldering center of a fire; unbearably bright and so alluring that he finds himself wanting to look deeper, step closer, reach in and grab whatever makes him look so radiant. Then John laughs sort of breathlessly as if to say _I can't believe we're bloody at this again_, a dazzling smile stretching his lips, and Sherlock quickly joins him because he can't believe it either.

Sherlock recalls the pool incident in which he held all three of their lives – Moriarty, John, himself – in his hands, or more specifically, in the gun that he had aimed at the semtex-laced jacket. He remembers John meeting his eyes and nodding once, slowly but certainly, silently telling him that he trusted Sherlock and whatever actions he needed to take. _That_ John was a mixture of _brave_ _soldier _and _utterly trusting colleague _and _fearless man _all wrapped into one.

And there's more; _so much more._ Every single day he spends with him, a new detail is added, more data surfaces, and yet another facet is added to the endlessly complex being that is John Hamish Watson.

(The middle name is an excellent example of unexpected information)

The fact that he cannot fully understand John frustrates him more than it should. Sherlock knows he is human – however reluctantly – and understands that as a human he cannot logically know _everything. _Regardless_, _that knowledge does nothing to quell the curiosity burning up his mind and eating through his thoughts.

Along with his inability to define John himself, he is also unable to define what they are as a pair. Colleagues? Yes, technically, but saying it that way makes them sound too unfamiliar with each other. Flat mates? Also true, but even worse than colleagues because it implies that their relationship is something born only from a mutual need for housing. Friends? Well…

The dilemma there is quite simply that Sherlock has never had a 'friend' and therefore has nothing to hold him and John in comparison to. He's seen others socialize with their 'friends' and from what he has observed and deduced, they are merely people that one enjoys being around sometimes and occasionally having a laugh with. He's heard Lestrade casually mention that he and Donovan are friends, and given that woman's generally unappealing nature, that makes Sherlock question the validity of such a label. He also knows Mrs. Hudson considers Martha Scott from down the street a friend, and yet she's always happy to gossip about the woman's troublesome teenage nephew and ridiculous cat-sweater collection.

'Friend' simply seems too meaningless a word to apply to John.

Sherlock realizes that his desire to define their relationship surpasses his desire to define John himself. He supposes he can live with never fully knowing his flat mate – its does make life rather exciting – but he what he can't live with is the giant question mark connecting both of their names in his mind palace. Because that signifies a lack of information, meaning the room in which John-related thoughts are designated is incomplete.

Sherlock cannot be satisfied with incompletion. So, he does what he does best and decides the only way to find out is by collecting data and drawing conclusions.

* * *

Sherlock walks down the morgue corridor brusquely, eyes trained keenly on the nervous looking woman holding a bag of toes at the end. As he gets closer, her cheeks visibly tint and her eyes fall to something on the floor.

"H-hello, Sherlock. I, er, I kept these at exactly negative eighteen degrees Celsius like you asked,"

He gracefully swipes the bag from her and drops it into his coat pocket without a second glance. "Thank you, Molly," He says, smoothly. "Actually there were two reasons why I came here to see you,"

Her eyes widen and a brief look of panic flickers across her face. "Oh, no, did you want the fingers too? Because I'm afraid those were accidentally thrown out by one of the doctors last weekend. I-I'm sure the dumpsters might still be in the lot, we could go check," She looks distressed and possibly on the verge of tears – or worse, an endless stream of apologetic babble – so he makes a point of cutting her off.

"No need to worry, Molly, I actually forgot about the fingers entirely," He hadn't forgotten about the fingers and in fact needs them for an upcoming experiment, but he doesn't want to upset Molly so he lies. He needs her in a good state of mind for what he is about to ask, anyway.

She seems shocked at his uncharacteristic display of consideration, but the relief on her face is palpable and her typical manner of shy happiness returns. "What did you need?"

"Well, it's a question, actually, that I'd like you to answer,"

"Okay, what do you need to know?" She asks, pleasantly. "I can go grab some of the medical records we have in the back, we've recently added a few new folders of diseases and their effects on the immune system, as well as several lab write-ups on this fantastic, recently discovered mold called-"

"Actually, Molly," He cuts in, "I was hoping to speak to you about your view on something personal,"

She raises a brow in surprise, because it is not often that he comes to her seeking advice on non-cadaver related subjects. "Er, okay, what do you want to know?"

He clears his throat awkwardly and suddenly becomes aware that they are alone in an empty hallway. He decides that he'd rather have this conversation without her attention undividedly on him, because what he is about to ask is bloody uncomfortable enough without those large, calf-like eyes staring at him.

"Would you mind if we had this conversation in the lab?" He asks pointedly. He needs a familiar setting, at least, given how unfamiliar everything else about this conversation will be. He is well aware the request is silly but feels nonetheless relieved that she doesn't comment on it. Instead she just smiles and nods like an eager puppy, immediately turning on her heel and beginning the short walk to the lab with a bounce in her step. In the back of his mind, he notes the dilatation of her pupils, increased color in her cheeks, and smile on her face and wonders what she thinks he wishes to discuss with her. She doesn't think he's going to…ask her out, right? For one horrifying moment he contemplates a scenario in which Molly is under such an impression and because of it, tries to do something horrid like _hug _him. _Egad,_ or worse; _kiss_ him.

He mentally groans and thinks that perhaps he shouldn't have told a very obviously infatuated Molly Hooper that he wished to speak of something personal and demand to continue the conversation in a relatively private room, after being uncharacteristically nice to her. Of course she would draw conclusions.

As he continues walking, he attempts to prepare an adequate statement of rejection.

When they reach the lab, Molly steps inside and flicks on the heavy switch by the door, flooding the room in clinical, bright light. She makes a beeline for a tray of Petri dishes filled with what appear to be several types of poisonous molds, already donning her customary goggles and gloves. She grins down at the tray and holds one of the dishes up to the light, examining the mold through its clear underside.

"You might want to take a look at these later, Sherlock," She says, eagerly, "We've just started growing them. They're rather uncomplicated in composition, but utterly deadly if mixed with certain chemicals, or exposed to certain temperatures,"

Sherlock has to bite down the urge to stride over, sweep the entire tray into his arms, and spend the rest of the afternoon examining and taking notes. He came here with a purpose; there is always time for experimenting with Chaetomium, Fusarium, and other such interesting types of mold.

After one last glance at the tray, Molly turns back to face him, eyes bright. "So what did you want to ask me, Sherlock?" She smiles dazzlingly, cheeks colored a deep, saturated pink.

He decides then that the best way to deal with this situation is to be as blunt and straight-forward as possible; he'll just come right out with it.

"Molly Hooper, what are John and I?"

She stops smiling immediately, her expression melting into confusion and surprise at his abrupt shift in subject. She is utterly blank for the moment it takes her brain to catch up and recognize the question.

"You…and John?" She asks, still puzzled.

"Yes, John and I. What are we?" He repeats, impatiently. Honestly, what is so complicated about this question?

"You want _my_ opinion on this?"

_No, I want the Queen's opinion. Of course I want yours; why else would I ask you?_

"Yes," replies Sherlock, shortly.

She furrows her brow and considers the question for a long moment. After some time she finally meets his eyes again, looking somewhat amused.

"I think you two are friends, very close friends in fact. Is there any reason why you need to know this all of a sudden?"

He ignores the latter part of her response. "Molly, the qualifications of a 'friend' are very loose and very minimal. Why, the definition itself is so meaningless that I could say _Anderson_ and I are bloody friends! It simply isn't the correct term; it is not enough,"

"So you're more than friends?"

"Yes, obviously," He snaps. How could she, for one minute, think that John Watson is worth no more than the meager title of 'friend'? It baffles him that the thought has even crossed her mind.

"Well, how about this: you tell me how you feel about John, what you think of him, and I'll tell you what you two are in more certain terms," She suggests, carefully.

He nods, appeased. This logical approach is certainly something he can abide by.

"I respect John, find him interesting and a worthy companion, consider him a good man, and enjoy his presence,"

Molly raises an amused eye brow. "But you're telling me that you're not friends?"

"No. The title is too inadequate,"

"Well," She says slowly, vainly attempting to work a smile from her mouth, "You've pretty much just described the definition of a friend, so yes; I reckon you and John are friends,"

"But…no. We aren't. We can't be. I mean, Molly, for god's sake, _Anderson_ is someone's friend! How can _John_ be put in the same category as _Anderson_?" He doesn't bother attempting to mask the blatant horror in his tone. John is, in no way, shape, or form, even _slightly_ similar to Anderson, so they definitely should not be put under the same label, no matter how broad.

Molly's lips quirk and she shakes her head, seemingly endeared by his antics. He doesn't know what the hell is so humorous, because there is nothing remotely funny about Anderson and John being spoken in the same sentence, let alone grouped under a mutual title.

"Sherlock, 'friend' means something different to everyone. There is no blanket definition to it, because it changes depending on the context, the people involved, and their relationships. And besides, if you two aren't friends, then what else could you possibly be?"

He huffs impatiently. "And so we arrive back to my original question,"

Molly sighs and busies herself with removing her gloves. "Sherlock, why not just ask John yourself? I'm sure he'd be happy to tell you,"

Sherlock narrows his eyes at her currently bowed head and scowls. She's lucky that she's too preoccupied with those gloves to notice, because it's a rather fierce scowl. If Sherlock could just 'ask John' then why would he be here bothering with _her_ at all? Obviously he can't, otherwise he would be speaking with John right this minute! Molly is intelligent but good _lord_ she can be daft.

He's past the point of censoring himself, so he simply says out loud what he has just thought. Molly responds by looking bemused.

"And why can't you ask John?"

"Because, Molly, the information that I am collecting is for the strict purpose of filling his room in my mind palace and what occurs in my mind palace is no one's business, especially not his. Besides, people tend to lie or sugarcoat, anyway; if I asked him he might tell me something he doesn't actually believe, just to appease me. Not to mention the fact that my fixation on the subject might disturb him, in turn making him question his comfort at Baker Street and eventually prompting him to leave. And, obviously, I don't plan on allowing that to happen. This experiment is solely for my own purposes, so John does not need to know anything about it. I need solid, concrete information, which can only be achieved by garnering facts and observations and drawing a conclusion," He replies in one, terse breath.

For a moment her face is utterly blank, as it usually is after he extensively explains something in that deep, enunciated drawl of his. Then a large, ridiculous smile breaks across her face and she giggles into her hand. He stares at her with nearly comical confusion, completely thrown off by her response.

"What? What is funny?" He demands.

She shakes her head and grins at him once more. "Sherlock Holmes, do you realize how completely sweet you are being?" Her laughter is revived at the sight of his appalled expression. "You've just admitted to several rather endearing things. To start, you've disclosed that you have an _entire room_ in your mind palace for John. As long as I've known you, I have never heard of a person taking up a corner – let alone a _room_ – of your precious mental space, and yet you've known John for less than a year and he has already done so. Second, you've confessed that you need John's company, which isn't surprising as I already gathered as much, but for you to admit it? That's certainly impressive. And, lastly, this is honest-to-god the furthest you've ever delved into an experiment that wasn't crime-related; especially because this directly pertains to a_ person_, something that has always managed to escape your interest," She smiles at him and raises an eyebrow. "If you two aren't friends, then I really, really do not know what else to call it,"

Molly has a point. His behavior is rather unusual when it comes to John – unusual in a positive way, he supposes – so it's only logical to draw the conclusion that the cause is something equally as odd. They are…friends. Hm. He rolls the word around in his mouth for a moment before speaking it out loud.

"Friends?" He tries, experimentally. It feels odd on his tongue.

She nods serenely and leans back against the counter. "Yes, friends. Although, er, if I didn't know better, I'd say…" She purposefully trails off and the conspiratorial smile returns, albeit a bit softer this time. "Well, judging by your blatant admiration of him alone, I'd say you have a crush on him, Sherlock,"

His eyes blow wide open and he finds himself at loss for words. A _crush?_

Molly manages to contain herself for an impressive ten seconds before dissolving into laughter, her eyes merry and bright. "I'm only kidding, Sherlock. No need to look as if you've seen a ghost,"

He merely blinks.

After a few moments, she sobers somewhat – the smile remains, though – and considers him, contemplatively. "Or at least I think I was kidding. Do you, Sherlock? Have a, er, crush on John, I mean?" She clears her throat awkwardly.

Well, he thinks to himself, if he had any preconceived ideas about how uncomfortable this conversation was going to become, then they've been greatly exceeded. He closes his eyes and wonders why they're talking about him hypothetically fancying John when there are so many other things they ought to be discussing and that he'd much rather prefer.

"John is not interested in _men_, Molly. If you couldn't tell as much from the endless parade of women going to and from the flat, then you're far more obtuse than I'd assumed," He snaps, impatiently.

He waits for the hurt to flash across her features, for her mouth to tighten and her eyes to dim in offense, but instead she just keeps staring at him as if she hadn't even heard the bite in his tone. She looks surprised, if anything.

"Sherlock," she begins, slowly, "You do realize that you didn't deny fancying John, right? You just said he wasn't interested. You said nothing about how _you _feel,"

He stops glaring at her and straightens. He mentally reviews his own words and realizes, with no small amount of surprise, that his knee-jerk response to Molly's accusation was not to deny its truth, but to point out the logical reasons why _John_ would not be interested. His brow furrows and he feels himself sinking deeper into his mind palace to mull this over. For a moment of introspection he attempts to answer Molly's question in the privacy of his mind:

Does he fancy John?

He considers all of the ridiculous jumpers, perfectly brewed cups of tea, gentle smiles, conspiratorial glances, steady hands, bright eyes, loud, contagious laughter, and he decides that he certainly feels some form of _affection_ and _care_ for John. He knows that he'd rather die than allow John to be hurt, or even worse, taken away from him, and he is well aware that John is the only person whose company he truly enjoys. He recognizes the gentle warmth that blooms in his chest at John's smiles or awe-filled compliments, along with the deep, unshakable calm that engulfs him whenever John is within arm's reach. He acknowledges it, he really does.

The_ problem_ is this: where is the line drawn between romantic feelings and platonic feelings? Just because he lo- _cares_ for John, does that mean he wants to be with him? Or is this how people typically feel in friendships? Sherlock wouldn't know, as he's never experienced either as long as he's been alive. It's ridiculous to think that a thirty-five year old man would have utterly no experience with love or friendship, but that is simply the way Sherlock is and because of it he is completely clueless.

He blinks once, twice, and refocuses on Molly who has been watching him uncertainly from her position near the counter, a look of concern coloring her features.

"Sherlock?" she questions carefully.

"I don't know, Molly. I don't think I fancy John, but then again, how can I be sure? I deeply care for him and I like him quite a lot, but does that mean I think of him romantically?" He furrows his brow in genuine frustration. He despises not knowing things and this particular subject has always been a difficult spot for him, something he endlessly struggles to wrap his mind around. Why do human emotions have to be so bloody _complicated_?

She bites her lip and looks reluctant, as if steeling herself to say something uncomfortable, before her features settle and she looks decisive. With a deep breath she asks, "Do you think of John sexually?"

He nearly jerks back at her completely uncharacteristic bluntness, only just managing to control the automatic response of flinching. "No, no of course not," he replies quickly and with complete certainty, "I mean, I've thought about maybe…maybe hugging John – I've done that once or twice and it wasn't bad – but I certainly am not harboring any kind of sexual frustration over him,"

"And kissing?"

He considers this for a moment. He and John, being the reckless, danger-hungry people they are, have gotten themselves in several very strange positions over the past year, most involving both high levels of adrenaline and rather close proximity; in other words, the perfect situation for a dramatic kiss. Sherlock recalls once being literally _tied_ to John – some shoddy jewel thief that was promptly caught and convicted mere minutes after he'd haphazardly bound the two of them – their noses nearly touching and close enough to easily edge forward and close the inches between them with a kiss.

And yet they had not.

Why? Perhaps it was because John would not stop giggling like a bloody schoolgirl, since the situation was – once again – so utterly ridiculous and simultaneously dangerous that the only thing to do was laugh. He had been resolutely ignoring John's childish – but undeniably amusing – antics, instead staring at the shelf behind him where the thief had clearly left his poor excuse of a knife and thus their way out. He'd wasted no time in tricking the simpleton into retrieving it – honestly, though, where was the fun if the criminal was an idiot – then freeing them from their restraints. As the police had arrived and Sherlock was brushing off the lapel of his coat – the ropes had done some slight damage to the material, unfortunately – John had looked at him with an amazed, unabashedly adoring expression on his face and let out a small laugh of disbelief, as he usually did when Sherlock impressed him. Sherlock himself hardly considered their escape noteworthy, but since it always pleased him to see John like that, he didn't bother refuting the inevitable stream of praise that came next.

Later, on the cab ride home, when John had been going on about something or another (probably more exclamations about how great this would look on his blog), Sherlock had found himself feeling somewhat dazed and enthralled by the shining, bright look in John's eyes. They were like whirl pools – sparkling cerulean dotted by flecks of dark blue – and Sherlock felt as if he were being swallowed whole. It was strange, but he experienced the briefest urge to lean in and stop John's rapidly moving mouth with his own. It wasn't a sexual impulse – something fiery, passionate, or lustful – Sherlock had simply wanted to be _closer_ to John. Even though they were already sitting a bit more intimately than usual – inches from being pressed together shoulder to thigh – he'd wanted to get even closer, even deeper and further, because John was so _alive_ and _brilliant_ and he was_ glowing _and _grinning_ and Sherlock desperately wanted to be a part of such unadulterated joy. Sherlock felt drawn to him in the same way a moth was attracted to a flame. Both John and fire were blindingly bright with an indefinable magnetism that beckoned the viewer closer, nearer, further, all in the hopes of absorbing even a fraction of their warmth.

Sherlock had wanted to touch that flame.

He'd wanted to thread his fingers through John's hair, flatten his palms over the excited rise and fall of his chest, brush fingertips down the bridge of his nose, run a thumb over the grinning swell of his bottom lip, grab the sides of his face and peer into his cloudless blue eyes and fall utterly into their depths. He'd wanted to wrap his arms around John and just hold him there tightly, his face buried inches deep into his shampoo-smelling hair, John's nose pressed unceremoniously into his collarbones. He wished that he could crawl inside John's head, behind his blue eyes, inside his bones, and within the red and blue crisscrosses of veins to discover what it would be like to be so loved and so brave and so bloody _interesting._

Sherlock had never experienced such impulses before and felt rather shaken as the tide of unexpected emotion crashed and gradually ebbed away, while John, unaware, continued to speak happily of the case beside him. He'd been glad that John was still rather poor at deducing, otherwise his rigid posture and clenched fists would have been clear indicators of his inner turmoil.

"_Sherlock," _In the time he has spent reliving his memories and mulling over their meanings, Molly has crossed the room and placed a small hand on his arm. "You've been staring at empty air for about five minutes now, are you alright?"

He says nothing, only glances pointedly at her hand resting on his bicep. She looks startled and quickly retracts it, faint blush staining her cheeks. After a beat of recovery she says, "Okay, so obviously the subject of kissing hit a nerve," She pauses to consider the implications of why that is and the blush immediately returns with vengeance. "Oh…_oh_. So then you've…you…h-have you and John, er, kissed before, then?" Molly fumbles.

He rolls his eyes, about to complain about what a stupid question that is, but then bites it back under the recognition that it isn't a terribly unreasonable conclusion to draw.

"No, we have not." Sherlock responds, succinctly.

Except, well, that isn't exactly true.

There was one instance a few weeks ago in which he and John had been watching some awful show on telly and John had fallen asleep beside him on the sofa, despite his earlier insistence that the show was brilliant and "kept him on the edge of his seat". Sherlock glanced over at his soundly-sleeping flatmate and rolled his eyes, mentally begging to differ. After watching John sleep for a few minutes, his eyes flickering over every detail from the blonde hue of his eyelashes to the small crease of concentration that formed between his brows, Sherlock found himself feeling, once again, hopelessly curious. Sherlock carefully rose from his end of the couch, mindful not to disturb John, before walking around their coffee table and crouching down right beside John's peacefully slumbering form. His eyes darted across the tanned landscape of his flatmate's face, jumping from eyebrows to nose to ears to hair to…lips. With increasing interest he peered closer at John's mouth, somewhat thin and pink and rather pleasantly shaped. He thought back to all of the times he'd seen it curve into a smile or smirk, or even an angry pout, and he felt a strange surge of affection blossom within his chest. He wasn't sure what compelled him to do so, but without further thought he leaned forward and experimentally pressed his lips to John's forehead. John's skin was warm and familiar and up-close it smelled of tea, body soap, sweet fabric softener, and another scent that was entirely John. It'd made Sherlock feel dazed and comfortable and unbearably warm. He'd closed his eyes and kept his lips there, soft and scarcely brushing John's forehead, temporarily shutting down his thoughts and basking in the feeling.

However, as soon as it occurred to Sherlock that he was kissing his flat mate while he slept, he jerked back and blinked out of the haze, mentally promising to never do such a thing again.

And so far he hasn't, though not for lack of wanting to.

His mind grinds to a halt as he considers that last thought. _Not for lack of wanting to_? So then he _does_ want to kiss John again? Just as his thoughts begin to scramble and jumble even further, it occurs to him that perhaps he shouldn't be having these very private realizations in a lab with Molly Hooper.

"Er, Sherlock, don't take offense if this isn't the case, but it really does seem like perhaps you –"

Sherlock cuts her off with a halting hand motion and equally uninviting expression. "Molly, thank you for your time, but I really must be off," he announces abruptly, pulling his coat back on in a very no-nonsense manner. Before Molly even has the chance to reply, he has swept from the room, his long, swift stride making it impossible for her to keep up.

"Good day, Molly Hooper," He calls over shoulder as he pushes the doors open dramatically. Molly stares after him, bemused, wondering what on earth just happened.

* * *

Sherlock is sprawled elegantly across the couch, eyes closed and completely submerged in his mind palace, when John walks in haphazardly balancing several bags of shopping in his arms. Sherlock blinks one eye open to peer at his heavily laden flat mate and then immediately shuts it again, blatantly ignoring John's need for assistance. He is in the middle of contemplating am important case and cannot afford distractions, and because John is the most distracting thing on the planet, he cannot give him more than a brief glance. If he dares to look at his flat mate for more than that, he'll become the same hopelessly-infatuated sod that he's been for the past few weeks, scanning every one of John's movements and gestures as if they were the most important things in the word.

"Yes, don't mind me, I'm just fine!" John snaps, irritated. He grumbles testily to himself while he heaves the bags onto the table with a loud crash. Sherlock listens for the sound that is produced and from it deduces that John has bought an unusual amount of cakes and sweets, meaning he is in need of comfort food and therefore in a bad mood. Attempting to placate him will be pointless, because things are about to become considerably worse once John swings open the fridge and discovers the unfortunate mess that has saturated the shelves, thanks to a particularly leaky bag of thumbs. Sherlock adjusts himself into a more comfortable position and calmly begins the countdown.

_Ten…nine…eight_

John is rustling around in the bags for the non-perishables first, as per tradition. The cupboard creaks as he puts the tea away along with a sleeve of vanilla – no, chocolate – biscuits

_Seven…six…five_

Now he's trying to recall if he picked up the right brand of coffee. He is turning it in his hands, muttering that he should've written down the name from the previous can to make sure he bought the correct one. He sets it down in its customary spot, annoyed, and moves on to the milk and yogurt.

_Three… two… _

Holding the carton, opening the door…

_One._

"_Sherlock Holmes what the bloody hell is this?" _

Sherlock removes his steepled fingers from his lips and sighs. No matter what he says John will be furious with him, probably yell about responsibility and cleanliness and other such dull things, and then say he needs to 'get some air' (which is actually code for 'take a long angry walk to the pub, sit around with idiots that I used to like back in uni, grow tired of people in general, miss the comfort of 221B, and return home in a much better mood'). Which Sherlock is fine with, by the way. He simply wishes he could skip the part where John is upset with him; he hates seeing those typically bright, sparkling eyes turn dark and stormy with anger. However, as it is unavoidable, he decides to just rip off the metaphorical band aid and face the inevitable.

"It is the congealed liquid residue that leaked from my bag of thumbs. Mrs. Hudson probably moved them when she was restocking the fridge and tore the bag by mistake," he calls, wondering if John can hear him over all of that loud banging he is doing in the kitchen. Sounds of pots and pans clattering on the counter and cupboards slamming fill the small flat. _Oh, the music of the angered domestic_, Sherlock thinks to himself, fighting the urge to press his hands over his ears rather immaturely in an attempt to block out the noise.

John rounds the corner with a box of uncooked pasta in his hand, probably the next thing he plans to angrily shove into the cabinets, and simply stares at him.

"And you didn't clean it up why?" John asks in a composed, colorless tone. A less observant person might even say he looks calm. However, since Sherlock knows John the way he knows almost everything else – with frightening accuracy and complete familiarity – he notices that John's shoulders are hiked up just enough to show the tension in his muscles, his fists tremble faintly with the suppressed urge to hit something, and there is a steady flush of anger crawling from his collar across his face. He is also flexing his fingers ever so slightly.

"John," he says, slowly.

"Sherlock," John replies, evenly. He clenches his jaw and flexes his fingers again. "Is it really so bloody difficult to clean up after yourself, Sherlock?" he asks, but judging by the way he rapidly continues speaking he isn't looking for a response. "Because it truly puzzles me that a man of your mental ability cannot manage to do something as simple as clean up a spill. Put away some beakers. Wrap up a damned_ disembodied head_ and not leave it on display like this is some kind of horror factory. Is it really that hard for you, Sherlock?" his volume is beginning to climb now, the box of spaghetti long forgotten on the countertop. "Because if it is, Sherlock, if it is truly _beyond_ your realm of understanding, then just tell me now and I'll never dare to ask you to perform such a task again, alright? Is that alright, Your Highness?" he spits, angry and unreasonable and _thisclose_ to saying something truly scathing.

"I…" Sherlock pauses and considers his next words. His kneejerk response is to dismiss the mess with an uninterested wave of his hand and move on to more important things instead. It's just a sticky shelf, after all. If John chooses to overreact then he can do so somewhere other than here; perhaps on one of his trips to 'get some air'.

It should be the easiest thing in the world to simply reply with _I fail to see how this warrants such a reaction. Perhaps you ought to consider the real source of your anger that undoubtedly stems from your thankless job instead of wasting time by scolding me. _

But he doesn't; he _can't_. The words simply won't leave his lips, no matter how he tries, because he cares about John's bad day at work and as reluctant as he is to admit it, he feels _sorry_. He hates the way John is looking at him – angry, disappointed, and annoyed – and even though he knows those feelings are misdirected and fleeting, it doesn't make it hurt any less. He experiences, for the first time in a while, the pressing urge to just apologize because the thought of leaving things as they are is too unbearable. He bites the inside of his cheek and wishes John would just _stop glaring at him already _because it feels bloody awful.

"I'm sorry, John," he says at last, his voice sounding oddly small.

John blinks, completely thrown off by his response. "What?" The anger melts from his face in seconds and his arms fall limply to his sides.

"I said I'm sorry. I'll try to be neater next time around," he repeats, a bit stiffly this time. The words sound strange coming from him and he can tell John feels the same, because he peers at Sherlock as if he's just grown a third eye.

John continues to look confused until something in his expression clears and a realization dawns on him. "Bloody hell, you're ill, aren't you?" John asks, immediately flying into 'concerned doctor' mode. He crouches down beside the sofa and presses a warm hand to Sherlock's forehead, his eyes flickering rapidly across his face. "You don't appear to be sick, but I can't rule out hallucinogenic poisons, can I? Perhaps someone slipped something into your drink while we were on that case earlier. Unlikely, yes, but you did leave your cup unattended for a bit, so someone clever could've easily snuck over, " Sherlock indignantly protests, pushing futilely at John's persistent, worried hands as they attempt to feel his pulse and check his pupil dilation. "Sherlock, quit moving about will you?" he mutters absently as he attempts to examine Sherlock's displeased, narrowed eyes. _This is truly ridiculous,_ Sherlock thinks to himself.

"John," he interjects impatiently, fully prepared to end all of this nonsense because he is absolutely _not _ill.

John ignores Sherlock and rises from the floor in favor of the spot across from him. When Sherlock shows no intention of moving, John sighs exasperatedly.

"Okay, Sherlock, the most I can effectively do from this position is give you a foot rub, so kindly move?" John drops a pillow beside his thigh and pats it, "Put your head here; it'll be easier for me to inspect your eyes and heart rate," he explains, digging into his pocket for the compact flashlight he frequently uses at the clinic and makes a habit of always carrying.

Sherlock knows with utter certainty that curling up beside John's leg to be blatantly stared at and prodded is an awful idea. Hell, he can't even be within the same room as John without losing his damned mind, let alone being literally _pinned down_ by his gaze and careful, concerned hands.

He shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He should just say that he is not ill in that sharp, brittle tone of his, then primly rise from the couch and claim that the apology was due to some kind of mental lapse. That's what he should do. That's what he_ must_ do.

That's what he doesn't do.

As he flips his position and settles his head on the Union Jack pillow four-point-five inches from John's left thigh, he concludes that a disregard for logic is just one of the many side-effects of infatuation.

John's expression briefly flickers with triumph, before he leans down to press his fingers to Sherlock's neck in search of his pulse. Sherlock freezes. John's hand feels warm and oddly soothing against his cool skin and he unconsciously relaxes into the touch. Even though this place on his body is one of the most vulnerable – the throat can be crushed, maimed, and smashed in several very simple ways, after all – he feels no sense of danger or alarm when John's fingers gently brush against the hardy throb of his carotid artery, nor does he mind when John uses his other hand to sweep his hair back from his forehead in search of fever. It feels strangely wonderful to be doted upon so attentively, especially by John's careful, unwittingly affectionate hands. He closes his eyes for a moment and melts into the feeling, completely deaf to the concerned muttering John does under his breath as he inspects. John doesn't seem to be aware of it, but the entire time his eyes are sweeping his face and forming a possible diagnosis, his hands continue to absently rake through Sherlock's hair even though there is no longer a need to search for fever. It feels rather pleasant.

"How are your hydration levels?" asks John.

"Mm fine,"

"Really. Well, how many glasses of water have you had in the past three days? Because I'm fairly certain you and I have different ideas of what passes for 'fine'"

Why must John ask about such useless things? Who cares about water? Water is boring. What_ isn't_ boring, however, is the way John's fingers are kneading Sherlock's scalp and raking through his thick hair, causing laser-hot sparks of pleasure to shoot down his spine. Mm. Thoughts blur into each other and he forgets what John has just asked, far too preoccupied with the blissful massage.

"Okay, pulse is normal, pupil dilatation normal, no fever…Sherlock, did you just moan?" John asks, abruptly breaking his own stream of analysis with a strange look on his face. Sherlock stiffens and opens his eyes. _Did _he just moan?He can not quite recall, but considering the delicious feeling John's gently massaging fingers had been supplying, he cannot give a firm statement of denial. He mentally sighs because it is now a matter of seconds before John realizes what he's been doing and immediately stops. He doesn't bother with a countdown this time.

John proves him correct, as usual, when he glances down at his preoccupied hands and looks startled to find them tangled rather deeply in Sherlock's dark, raven curls. "Wait, what am I doing?" He asks, taken aback, as if someone else put his hands there for him. He immediately pulls them free, careful not to catch any knots on the way. "Er, sorry about that," he amends, awkwardly.

Sherlock sits up, ending their contact completely (much to his regret). "John,"

John just blinks, clearly still focused on the fact that he was just massaging his flat mate's head mere seconds previous. "Yes?" he asks, slowly.

"John, I'm okay. I'm not ill and I haven't been poisoned or brainwashed or abducted by extraterrestrials or whatever other conclusions you were bound to jump to. I'm completely fine," he repeats, sitting up and placing his hands on John's shoulders to calm him. As soon as he does so he becomes very aware of their proximity once again and has to force himself to pull his hands back.

"You're not sick," John repeats, blankly. Bit by bit blush splotches his cheeks and his expression turns embarrassed. "Then why the bloody hell did you just let me _inspect_ you?" he asks, mortified.

"You were insistent that there was a problem, despite my protests. It seemed wiser to simply let you do what you wanted rather than attempt to convey logic," he answers succinctly, sounding far more composed than he actually is. He completely brushes over the supposed moan and is extremely relived when John does the same. (Sherlock has a feeling that has more to do with John's forgetfulness rather than his willingness to look over something suggestive, but he'll gladly take what he can get)

"Well, yes, of course I thought something was wrong! You said…well, you, er," John's brow furrows as he attempts to articulate an account of what happened. "You said sorry," he finishes simply, expression bewildered.

"Yes? And?" Sherlock asks, impatiently. Really, it's a bit disappointing that John's first reaction to a genuine apology is to check for signs of poison, drugs, or illness. He supposes it has not occurred to John that he apologized simply to _please_ him. Though, Sherlock cannot truly blame him for being unaware because that line of reasoning makes even less sense than the others, given own rather barren historywith emotions and caring.

"You apologized and you meant it," John concludes at last, looking somewhere between mystified and pleased. He finally decides to lean more towards the latter and smiles warmly, his hand extending to grip Sherlock's shoulder amicably. Sherlock flinches away, but not out of repulsion, rather because of the pleasant-but-strange sparks that seem to explode from wherever John's skin meets his. It is alien and distracting and Sherlock cannot control the gut-reaction of jerking away from it. He regrets it immediately when John takes the motion differently and pulls his hand back, a distressed look on his face. He clearly thinks Sherlock is angry with him for being loud, irrational, and unreasonable. Sherlock is too busy trying to ignore the pleasant warmth that pulsates from his shoulder where John touched him to bother refuting John's very incorrect conclusion. He couldn't possibly be less angry at the moment, actually. But John can't read minds so he sighs and chews his bottom lip thoughtfully, before looking back up to meet Sherlock's eyes with an apologetic gaze of his own.

"Sherlock, you did not need to apologize. I was being irrational and crabby because of something that happened at work; it had nothing to do with you and your spilled thumbs," he smiles slightly at the odd phrase, "I was quite out of line and you did not deserve to have abuse shouted at you. If anyone should be sorry here, it's me,"

"It's quite alright, John. That snappy woman had no right to yell at you today; no wonder you were in a rubbish mood," he commiserates in the most sympathetic voice he can muster. He truly does care and wish to comfort John, but he's just so bloody awful at it that sometimes he must resort to plain-old acting and hope for the best.

"How'd you know she – actually, I don't want to know," John decides. "Either way, I feel much better now, so it no longer matters,"

"Sure it does. You've been waiting all day to rant about it." Sherlock adjusts himself so that he and John are facing each other from opposite sides of the couch. "I'm, as they say, 'all ears',"

John grins at that. "Alright, alright, since you asked," he clears his throat and settles himself against a cushion. "She was rather large, giant-like to be honest…"

* * *

For the three nights that follow, he lays awake, staring at the ceiling, asking himself how something as simple as John _brushing hair from his forehead _can make fireworks explode behind his eyelids and set his veins thrumming. Just the_ memory _of it sends warmth flooding through his chest.

He tosses and turns restlessly. He is no closer to defining his relationship with John than he was weeks ago when he consulted Molly. With a resigned sigh, he decides that it is time to ask for a second opinion. It's not spectactualrly late yet, so he reaches on his nightstand for his mobile and taps in a famialr number.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering if perhaps we could have tea tomorrow? There are a few things I wish to discuss…"

* * *

"You know, Sherlock, I can't say this comes as a shock. If anything, I'm surprised it took you this long to come to your senses," Mrs. Hudson says warmly, pushing a plate of biscuits in his direction, a smile lightening her features.

Sherlock glances down at the sweets – plain chocolate, his favorite, and some puffy, raspberry ones that he knows John fancies – and politely accepts one, though he suspects that he wouldn't have had the option of refusing anyway, considering the intent way his landlady is watching him eat it. (Why is everyone in his life so fixated on his dietary habits? Are they really all that interesting?) He deduces that she made them herself and spent a total of two hours baking then decorating them. He genuinely likes Mrs. Hudson and thus feels the need to show some form of appreciation.

Sherlock takes a hearty bite, "Yum," he offers, unconvincingly. Despite his best efforts, the word comes out sounding alien and borderline comical in his deep, unanimated baritone.

Mrs. Hudson chuckles good-naturedly and takes the seat across from him. "Dear, I've known you long enough not to be offended if you don't exclaim praise when eating my baked goods. Thank you for the effort, though," she beams at him. The two settle into comfortable silence for a bit, the only sounds coming from the quiet radio in the sitting room. He eats another biscuit to occupy his hands and mouth. Mrs. Hudson looks thoughtful, then decisive.

"Sherlock, dear, now about why you came here…" she purposefully trails off to allow him to switch his mindset to the topic she wishes to discuss.

The topic: John. (Seems as if everything revolves around those four letters these days)

He really shouldn't feel so reluctant to broach this subject, considering he was the one to call Mrs. Hudson yesterday, asking to come over. It was a very uncharacteristic course of action for him to take – consulting other people was trying at best – but he trusted Mrs. Hudson and she already thought they were together anyway, so her input would undoubtedly be of value.

"Yes," he affirms slowly, his voice sounding irritatingly uncertain.

"Well, you didn't say much over the phone, but you did mention it had to do with John? Specifically you and John?" Her eyes glint knowingly, but she says nothing further.

He clears his throat and nods briskly. "Yes, yes it involves John and I," he shifts in his seat, "I've been conducting an experiment recently on relationships – of the platonic and romantic nature – and simply out of curiosity I've been simultaneously gathering data on where John and I stand in those regards. I deemed it prudent to ask you for your view on the subject because you know John and I the best, namely me, and I feel that you can provide very valuable insight,"

She raises a brow and suppresses an endeared smile. She takes her time mentally formulating a response as she unhurriedly pours two new cups of tea. She pushes Sherlock's across the table and sighs, folding her hands before her and settling into her response. "Dear, I'll start by simply saying that I've known you for years and I have never seen you look at anyone – man or woman – the way you look at John Watson. I know you don't have much experience in this area," he tightens his mouth and feels his face heat, "but it's quite clear that you lo –" the phone rings and its loud, shrill, incessant whine immediately cuts her off. She purses her lips and looks torn between the urge to continue the conversation and politely answer the phone. After another beat of hesitation her habits win out and she rises from her spot at the kitchen table, smoothing out her apron, and looks at him apologetically.

"Oh, dear, do excuse me for a moment, will you? In the meantime take a look at that mold growing on the underside of the counter. Terrible stuff, but I suppose you'll find something interesting to do with it," then she hurries off to the sitting room.

For the sake of busying himself, he does examine the mold on the counter, but it turns out to be an uninteresting shade of white that he quickly identifies as common household mildew. Frowning and already sensing the boredom and restlessness kicking in, he returns to his seat at the table. In Mrs. Hudson's small, peach-colored kitchen he feels both out of place and oddly comfortable. The former is mostly due to the considerably awkward task of folding his tall, lanky frame into her petite chairs and somehow bending his long legs at tricky angles in order to fit them beneath the table (Even with the extreme contortionism, his knees still brush its underside). However, other than that, he feels entirely welcome and at peace in her small, potpourri-scented flat, with its embroidered pillows, pastel color themes, and delicious baked goods perpetually cooling on the counter. He supposes he enjoys it because it provides the warm, somewhat motherly environment he lacked as a child.

Minutes trickle by and he continues to let his mind wander from topic to topic, steadfastly ignoring the very loud, persistent voice shouting about Mrs. Hudson's dramatically unfinished sentence. There are not many words beginning with "lo" that she could've intended to finish with, unless she'd planned to say "you loathe him", which he seriously doubts.

So the question is, does he "lo" John? (And no he won't say or even think the word because frankly it's a bit frightening; mostly because of how natural it feels)

In truth he doesn't know. Hell, he barely knows if he wants to kiss John or shake his hand. Friends or partners? Platonic or passionate?

Nothing makes sense.

Thankfully, he is saved from his own rapidly whirring thoughts when Mrs. Hudson reenters the kitchen looking extremely pleased. "Sherlock, you would not guess who that was!" She exclaims, and then laughs gaily when she sees his dead-pan expression in response (because yes, he's certain he actually can guess).

"Oh, dear, it was your brother – "

His face immediately crumples into a scowl and he turns his nose up. "Mycroft in the flesh or via telephone is never good news, Mrs. Hudson,"

She gushes on as if he hadn't spoken. "He had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," she grins and laughs, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"

But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson, it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern.

"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"

He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically.

"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"

* * *

**A/N: Part 2 will be posted (hopefully) within the next few weeks! As I said in the first A/N, this is my first Sherlock fanfic and any feedback you guys would be willing to give would be greatly appreciated. Thanks for reading, loves! **


	2. Of Kent, Cinnamon, and Realizations

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock _or_ John, unfortunately. **

**A/N: Every time I write from Sherlock's POV my search history ends up looking like:  
"synonyms for idiot"  
"time it takes to bleed out"  
"types of toxic molds"  
which earns me several strange looks from my family. **

**Sorry I couldn't have this up sooner, guys! But I've decided that this story is going to be at _least_ 4 chapters, instead of the two that I originally planned. Writing this has been so much fun, I hope you guys like reading it as much as I enjoyed creating it! :) **

* * *

Previously:

_"Mycroft had the most wonderful news! He's found a lovely murder case out in the country for you and John! It should take at least a few days to work through – yes dear, even with your genius – and he's even gone through the trouble of booking a nice hotel for the two of you while you're up there," Mrs. Hudson grins, shaking her head. "I really don't think the timing could have been more perfect,"_

_But Sherlock stops listening. His nostrils flare slightly and the tendons in his right hand flex, but his expression remains otherwise devoid of any outward irritation or anger. To the untrained eye he is calm, unperturbed. However, to the keen stare of Mrs. Hudson it becomes immediately apparent that he is seething. She stops smiling and crinkles her brow in concern._

_"Sherlock, dear, this is a good thing!" She insists, placing a soothing hand on his tense shoulder. "This will give you the opportunity to spend some alone time with John and figure out if you prefer him as a friend or…something greater. This is a wonderful opportunity, love; do not waste it simply to spite Mycroft,"_

_He sighs and drops his forehead into his large palms, wearily raking his fingers through his curls. "Mrs. Hudson my dilemma lies in John's feelings, not my own, though I will admit that they are equally as perplexing. I don't know if what I feel for him is typical among friends or a sign that I am looking for something more. How do I know? How can I possibly find out?" he asks, agitated. Mrs. Hudson eyes him sympathetically._

_"Oh, Sherlock, just do what you'd normally do when testing a hypothesis," she pauses and smiles, "Experiment!"_

* * *

Sherlock will not do Mycroft's damned legwork. He will not. He refuses_._

Mrs. Hudson insists that this case is a great chance to spend time with John, which is true, but she fails to understand that Sherlock can't just _do Mycroft favors_ like this. Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft functions only because there is a constant balance between doing what Mycroft tells him and_ not_ doing what Mycroft tells him. His mental tally system indicates that solving this case will put him too far into the "friendly brother" zone, which is a place he'd rather not be.

So, two sulky days after visiting Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock sits on the couch, crosses his arms, and tells John exactly why they aren't taking the case.

"Sherlock, don't you think you're being just a tad bit ridiculous?" John looks amused and not even half as serious as he ought to be. He sweeps a thick layer of dust from the top of the telly with a rag, mouth quirked into a grin. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you sound like a stubborn little boy," John stops dusting and moves over to tousle Sherlock's unruly curls. "With this hairstyle you even look like one,"

Sherlock glares in response, but John just keeps grinning, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight. That is unacceptable, because Sherlock is not being_ cute_ or _endearing _or anything else that warrants a smile; he is being _serious._

"John. Mycroft is _insufferable._ If I do this, then before you know it, he will begin giving us_ all_ of his cases out of pure laziness and we'll be drowning in boring government assignments,"

"I highly doubt that'll happen, Sherlock. You're being a bit dramatic,"

Sherlock scoffs. "John, Mycroft could solve this case within twenty minutes if he cared to. He's only given this task to me to make my life more difficult or to perhaps free up time to devour more cake. Who knows; maybe both,"

Finished with the dusting, John walks in front of Sherlock, hands on his hips. "We are helping Mycroft, Sherlock. You don't have any cases right now, anyway; it'll be something interesting to do. Besides, I've put in enough hours at the clinic to get the next few days off with pay. At the very least I could use a vacation,"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow and deadpans, "Oh really? Your ideal vacation involves a murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the many ways one can be killed?"

"Sherlock, my _life_ involves murder and copious amounts of time spent discussing the ways one can be killed. Seems fitting that my vacation would be just as mad, yes?"

Sherlock stops glaring. His lips twitch. "I suppose so,"

"Alright then. It's settled: you and I are popping down to Kent to solve us a nice little murder,"

"Fine. But_ only_ if I can't manage to solve this case from Baker Street first,"

"Sherlock, you really think you'll be able to sol—actually, what am I saying: of course you think that," John rolls his eyes, amused. "Alright then, we'll do things your way. You said Mycroft wants you down by Thursday, so I suppose you have at least the next twenty-four hours to work it out,"

* * *

Sherlock could not solve the case in twenty-four hours.

Thus: He is sitting on an uncomfortably jostling train, up to his eyeballs in files and news clips, on his not-so-merry way to Kent.

Sherlock glares down at the crumpled train ticket in his fist with more scorn than the innocuous paper deserves, only tearing his gaze away to periodically glower out the window at Kent scenery.

Sherlock decides he hates Mycroft.

And not in that insincere, familial manner that is only out of begrudging fondness. No. He honestly despises his conniving, scheming, cake-devouring brother and all of his terrible ideas. Mycroft is lucky that he isn't here otherwise he'd be chucked out the window along with the useless files currently in Sherlock's lap. Only the unpleasant thought of physical labor prevents him from pouring bin by bin of paperwork straight out of the train and onto the tracks where they belong.

He furiously kneads at his temple, vainly endeavoring to ward off a headache. His phone vibrates with a text and he ceases his ministrations to check it.

_Enjoying the challenge, brother mine? -MH_

Damn it, Mycroft. Only his brother could have managed to find a case that truly stumped him; everyone else automatically assumed he could handle any possible situation (himself included) but of course Mycroft begged to differ.

The deceptively simple case Mycroft had so generously presented him took place in a small, serene town in Kent about three days previous. A man was found dead on a local beach – discovered by two lovers no less – bloated, naked, and bearing a strange black mark on his chest. At first glance the cause of death could easily be surmised as a gang strike due to the mark, and upon a second look, it was found that the man's tongue was missing and there was a large amounts of drugs in his system. This seemingly only supported the theory that he was killed by a crime organization, then marked, perhaps over a drug dispute. However, it was quickly discovered – by Sherlock of course, because the detectives involved were somehow even less competent than those at the Yard – that the mark was a tattoo the man had willingly received at least three or four months prior to his murder, (How they mistook an aged tattoo for a gang marking was above and beyond his comprehension) and all of the drugs found were deliberately ingested. The lack of tongue was slightly more ambiguous, but he'd be able to piece it together once he got to see the corpse with his own eyes.

This of course rendered nearly every file on the case useless. Sherlock had spent the previous night and subsequent morning at Baker Street, shuffling through the paperwork and attempting to correct each error and inconsistency, but once it became clear that it would take longer than the few hours he was willing to sacrifice, he tossed the bin of files aside and fell into a sulk.

"Tea?" John had asked, standing before him with two mugs.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the ceiling to glance at John, making a vaguely affirmative gesture with his hands. "Yes but it will have to be to-go," he said, resigned. Unfortunately he'd have to take a look at the evidence in person, because the existing records were completely worthless. That meant going all the bloody way to Kent. Despite his best efforts it would seem that he was doing everything Mycroft had planned; the icing on the cake would be when he and John arrived and were forced to use the hotel Mycroft already booked for their lodgings. Unless, of course, they rebelled against his plans by sleeping on the ground or in some shoddy motel, though Sherlock was not particularly fond of either alternative.

"To-go? I thought you said you could, and I quote, 'solve Mycroft's stupid case from the sofa'?"

"Yes, John. I did say that. However that was before I realized how utterly thick the 'detectives' working on this case were. Now it appears we will have to go there and collect data for ourselves," he sighed long-sufferingly and plucked his scarf from the arm of the chair. "Grab your coat, will you?"

John looked at him strangely, "I'll be fine, Sherlock, I don't think I need—"

Sherlock waved him off, impatiently. "Yes, John, you do. Without it you'll get ill in this weather, and we certainly can't have that,"

John gave him that look again, and Sherlock mentally scolded himself for acting like some ridiculous mothering figure. If John wanted to be careless and catch a cold_, fine._

But then that hypothetical cold turned into pneumonia, which then led to respiratory failure, Sepsis, Emphysema, lung abscesses, and ended with John slowly dying in a hospital bed. Sherlock's heart leaped into his throat and nearly choked him. Without a second thought he swiped John's neglected jacket from its perch on the chair and practically forced John into it.

"Sherlock! I'm not a child—why are you putting my jacket—hey! Bloody calm down, will you?" John managed to tear away from Sherlock's insistent grip just as he was pulling the right sleeve on. John indignantly adjusted the rumpled collar of his jacket and looked at Sherlock as if he were mad.

Inwardly pleased, but still attempting to salvage what remained of his pride, Sherlock cleared his throat and casually brushed down the lapel of his own coat. "Let's go shall we?"

John cast him a wary glance, perhaps wondering if Sherlock planned to man-handle him again, before replying, "Fine, yes. Let's get going, the train will be leaving soon."

Which brings Sherlock to the present, wherein a bin full of useless records are jostling on his lap, Mycroft is sending smug texts, and his brilliant, magnificent mind continues hitting dead-ends. He knows this is not his fault; he has nearly no reliable evidence to work with, so whatever conclusions he does manage to draw end up contradicting themselves as soon as he dredges up another misfiled paper or out-of-focus photograph.

It is absolutely _maddening._

To make matters worse, he can't even distract himself by admiring, speaking with, or simply staring at John. Because although John is inches away in the next seat, he's too busy texting his woman-of-the-week to do much else but giggle at his mobile and punch flirtations into his keyboard, let alone give Sherlock some much needed attention. Annoyed, tired, and desperately wishing the train would stop already, Sherlock leans his forehead against the window and stares unseeingly at passing objects. Once John's texting conversation turns into an actual conversation, he has to clench both his jaw and fists to resist plucking the phone from John's hand and flinging it from the window.

"Yes, Laura, I did receive the picture; you look dashing in that dress," John says into his mobile, which is nearly mashed into the side of his head in eagerness. He grins at her reply. "Really, now? Well, I'd hardly call myself _debonair_, but if you say so…"

Sherlock groans. To revise his earlier thought: this is not just maddening, this is _agony._ His eyes fall to John's jumper, which is dark blue and soft-looking. Experimentally, he pokes John's shoulder. One touch quickly becomes two, and before he knows it he is pressing his index finger into the curve of John's shoulder to the beat of several different symphonies, most of his own creation.

_Poke poke poke—poke poke—poke poke poke—poke._

"Yes, I'd love to—" John stops abruptly, presses the phone into his shoulder, and hisses at Sherlock, "Will you stop bloody jabbing me in the arm?"

Unperturbed, Sherlock continues poking John, albeit at a slower pace. "John, I'm bored. Terribly bored. Unfathomably bored. I demand that you end that foolish call immediately,"

John rolls his eyes and raises the phone back to his ear. "Yes, Laura, I'm back. As you were saying?" He continues speaking with her, and when Sherlock resumes his pestering, John reaches up and stills his hand with his own. He mouths 'stop' and Sherlock does, but John doesn't release his hand. Sherlock stares at their joined hands, then back up at John questioningly. John moves the phone away from his ear once again to whisper, "I don't trust that you aren't going to start up again, so I'm not letting go until you promise to stop for good,"

Hm. Well. John is currently holding his hand, and if promising not to bother him will end this wonderful contact, then of course he isn't going to promise anything.

"And if you don't promise I'll just move across the aisle," he adds, flicking his gaze to the empty seat a few feet away.

Defeated, Sherlock slumps in his seat and murmurs a sullen "I promise". John releases him and returns to his call. Sherlock's right hand now feels unpleasantly cold.

Minutes pass unhurriedly, and after what feels like ten lifetimes, he hears John say, much to his relief, "Oh, you have to go? Alright, then. I'll talk to you another time, Laura,"

"That took long enough," Sherlock breathes, posture straightening and eyes brightening immediately. _Excellent._ Now he has John all to himself. With no preamble, he plucks one of the more coherent documents from the bin and begins questioning John.

"John, in your medical opinion, would you say this man's tongue was sawed off – and if that's the case, I'm guessing it would have been done with some kind of generic Swiss-army knife – or bitten off, mid-seizure, due to an overdose of tricyclic antidepressants?"

"Sherlock—"

"And then of course, there is the very complex cluster of scar tissue bunched up near the crease of his knee - could be a bullet wound, but the shape says knife – and I'm not quite sure if it somehow occurred because of his occupation - a crossing guard, according this this file – or possibly what he did in his free time, which is, in my opinion, far more likely considering how generally uneventful the job of directing people across the street is,"

"Sherlock," John cuts in, more sharply this time.

Sherlock, just about to open his mouth and continue, pauses. Reluctantly he presses his lips shut and waits for John to speak. (Though, whatever it is _surely_ could have waited until Sherlock shared that bit about the fingernails)

"Yes?"

"First of all, take a breath. You're speaking at a million miles an hour. In, out," John demonstrates, taking exaggerated inhalations and exhalations of air. Sherlock stares at him, trying, if anything, to breathe even less calmly than before out of pure pettiness. He doesn't need John to show him how to_ breath_e for Christ's sake, valuable time is being wasted!

"Yes, John, I'm aware of how to use my lungs,"

"Excellent. Now, I am absolutely knackered from the late shift I took last night, so I'm going to take a quick nap. Wake me up when we're in Kent, alright? Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes,"

"Wha—John, how can you possibly _sleep_ at a time like this? Those idiots mucked up the entire case, but there are still a few things we can piece together from the minimal amount of evidence that we have available, and I really do require your medical opinion on—"

"Wake me up in Kent," John repeats firmly. Then he closes his eyes, sinks down in his seat, and folds his hands on his abdomen. Within minutes he is fast asleep.

Sherlock glares out the window in a silent pout, his arms folded tightly, chin tucked into his chest. _Why must John waste valuable time talking to imbeciles and bloody napping? Wouldn't he rather talk to me about this case? Let's not forget that it's the two of US that are on this damned trip anyway, not him and Laura! Why doesn't he—_

Sherlock's mental ranting is cut short when John murmurs something in his sleep and leans into him. The train jostles and John's head ends up tucked into Sherlock's shoulder, his soft, cinnamon-scented hair brushing the underside of Sherlock's chin. Sherlock blinks, heat rushing to his face.

_Okay. That feels…good. Not terribly bad. Decent._

_Mm._

The twenty minutes that previously seemed to stretch on into eternity now pass at an alarming rate; before he has time to fully appreciate their position the train is pulling into the station and John is blinking himself awake.

"Mm, sorry about that," John mumbles, lifting his head from the scratchy wool of Sherlock's coat. "Did I bother you?"

Sherlock swallows and pointedly looks away. "No,"

After exiting the train, Sherlock strides ahead of John so they are not in close proximity. He needs some space; just a bit of time to allow the ridiculous pink splotches on his cheeks to cool back into smooth porcelain. He needs his heart to bloody calm down, too.

"Jesus, Sherlock, where's the fire? Would you bloody slow down?"

However, the separation ends up in vain because despite their distance Sherlock can't stop smelling cinnamon for the entire walk to the hotel.

* * *

As Sherlock stands alongside John in the hotel parking lot and gazes up at the towering, cream-colored building netted with ivy and bright purple bougainvillea, his only thought is _Damn it, Mycroft_.

Because _of course_ a simple hotel was not an option for Mycroft, he just_ had_ to get them reservations at a five star resort swarmed with tan, shiny-haired people and their dazzling, overpriced cars. Sherlock can practically hear the smooth jazz that will play in the smartly-decorated lobby, the low buzz of refined chatter from rich mouths; the gentle whoosh of expensive fabric brushing against equally exorbitant furniture.

He knows for a fact there will be gourmet chocolate-covered mints beneath their pillows and designer shampoo in their showers.

"John, we are not going in there,"

John, who'd been staring at the building in faint distaste, tears his eyes away to meet Sherlock's. "Why, what don't you like about it?"

Sherlock glares at the hotel as if it has personally offended him. "If Mycroft was a building, this would be it. Need I say more?"

"Ah. No, I suppose not," They turn around and begin their walk from the parking lot. John tucks his hands into his pockets. "Just as well, though. I can't stand uppity places like this,"

Without missing a bit, Sherlock replies, "Yes, I know. It makes you uncomfortable. You grew up in a very frugal household and were always forced to live life as inexpensively as possible. Then you joined the army and money was more or less irrelevant. When you moved back to London you lived in a very small flat for a low monthly fee because you do not see the point in frivolous decorations or material items. I am of course referring to the flat that preceded 221b, though even our present arrangement is economically sensible as you split the rent with me. You are quite practical. In fact, it's one of your best characteristics, John,"

"Well…thanks. But what about you? You grew up in this kind of lifestyle, so why did the thought of staying in that hotel bother you so much?"

"I already answered that,"

John furrows his brow. "How? That's the first time I've asked the question,"

"Because, as I said moments ago, it would make you uncomfortable," Sherlock steals a glance at John, then looks away, embarrassed. "I…I don't want you to be uncomfortable,"

"Oh." John raises his eyebrows in surprise, before a smile pulls up the corners of his lips. "You know, Sherlock, that's actually very thoughtful of you,"

Sherlock can already feel heat creeping up from his collar_._

_Stop that._ _Stop smiling at me like that - all endearing and playful - right this instance, John. STOP._

"Er—I suppose," is Sherlock's grumbled reply. He pulls up his collar and ducks his head, attempting to subtly hide the spreading blush.

"No, really, it's quite kind," John insists, now grinning ear to ear. His eyes sparkle like a schoolboy's; he looks like he is planning on doing something either juvenile or silly or all of the above. Sherlock pointedly does not look at John's face because that happy expression alone will be enough to melt away all of his reservations as well as his carefully preserved self-control.

"Whatever, John. It's _nothing," _he complains.

But John, of course, is undeterred. He moves closer to Sherlock as they walk, so that there is not an inch of space between their shoulders. "Despite those razor-sharp cheekbones and equally lethal wit, you really can be nice when you want to," John teases. Then, shockingly, he throws a quick arm around Sherlock's waist and squeezes lightly in a sort of half-hug. Before it even occurs to Sherlock to attempt to reciprocate, or at least savor the sensation of John's fingertips pressing into his hip, John's arm is gone and his deliciously warm hands are tucked innocently back into his coat pockets.

Sherlock is still reeling long after the fact, but John appears to have found nothing unusual about what he did, because moments later he casually asks, "So which hotel should we stay in, then?" As if that hug was no more than a typical occurrence that hardly required subsequent thought.

Sherlock, on the other hand, is quite flustered. His mind is clouded with frantic lines of data – _warm fingertips, light pressure, arm wrapped 'round my waist, cinnamon, laughter, playful smile _– and a mishmash of emotions that he is neither inclined nor able to figure out. Why the hell does he feel nervous, happy, scared, _and _pleased all at once? It's all just so _unnecessary. _Whoever dares to say that human emotions aren't complicated deserves a solid kick in the rear.

"There's a place just a few minutes from here I b-believe," Sherlock deliberately clears his throat and tries to ignore the fact that he just stuttered. John cocks an eyebrow but decides to let it go.

"Do you think it'll have available rooms?"

Sherlock scans the area. Decent weather today means that people of all kinds will head straight to the park or a lake or somewhere else scenic, so there will be many vacancies because no one wants to be holed up in a room – especially one that is not theirs – when there is nice weather outside. However, there appears to be some kind of event happening near the hotel – as can be seen by the cars lining the sidewalks and the reoccurring logos on ten different peoples' shirts – so that significantly affects the amount of available area. It's a small event, though, an annual town event perhaps, judging by the quality of the logo and the general appearance of the decorations, so it will not be big enough to book the entire hotel. Ah, but wait! People holding hands, red and pink color scheme…this is a couple's event, a dating event perhaps, not a town festival, so only the double bedded rooms will be taken. That leaves the single rooms and the family sized rooms open.

"Yes, I believe so,"

...

The hotel's interior is pleasant and unassuming, a far cry from the palatial resort Mycroft booked for them. While John handles the boring task of checking in, Sherlock pulls out his phone to send a text.

_Your taste is ridiculous. Do not feel inclined to choose lodgings on my behalf in the future, Mycroft. –SH _

He smirks to himself. Seconds later, his mobile beeps.

_Well, brother, your taste is nonexistent, which I rather think is worse than 'ridiculous'. What exactly displeased you? Was it not satisfactory to your John? –MH_

Sherlock bristles at that. He can practically _see_ the falsely innocent smile wrapped around '_your John'_. Sodding Mycroft. But as much as it pains him to admit, Mycroft is correct, and unfortunately there is no way to say he is wrong without outright lying, so Sherlock decides against replying. Annoyed, he snaps his mobile shut and joins John at the front desk.

"Well, 'fraid there's only a single room left, lads," the concierge explains, apologetically. "I 'spose you could take a family-suite, but that's a hundred-something extra and comes with three beds,"

John glances at Sherlock, "The single room is fine, right?"

It _is_ illogical to get a room with three beds when there are only two people, so Sherlock agrees. "Yes, that's fine."

"Alright, here's the key. Have a good one, lads,"

...

After some quick unpacking and a half-hearted attempt at lunch – soggy sandwich for John, hot tea for Sherlock – the two take a cab to the address Mycroft attached to one of the evidence files. At the moment, they sit side by side in the backseat of a cab on their way to the police department, Sherlock impatiently shaking his leg and staring out the window while John attempts to lay out what he calls "ground rules".

"First of all, I want you to at least_ try_ to keep the biting condescension to a minimum,"

"Impossible," Sherlock dismisses, not even bothering to tear his gaze from the window.

"Secondly, I'd like you to treat them with patience. They aren't geniuses like you, remember,"

To which he flatly replies: "No."

John doesn't seem even slightly upset though, because he clearly didn't expect Sherlock to listen to him at all. He is saying these things because as the moral compass of the pair he is obligated to at least _attempt_ to guide Sherlock in the right direction, even though nine times out of ten it will be in vain.

"And last but not least, you should smile. Shake their hand in greeting. Converse about the weather," Ah, and there is that good old dry sarcasm. John does an impressive job of keeping a straight face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but the quirk of his mouth undeniably proves his amusement. "Yes, yes, I'll definitely do that, John,"

John's shoulder shake in silent laughter as he turns his body to face the window. "Much appreciated."

* * *

The body is laid out on a table, pale, cold, bloated, and nearly past the stage in which usable data can be gleaned. Sherlock fancies himself lucky for showing up when he had, because even a few extra hours might've rendered this entire corpse useless.

Sherlock lifts the man's right eyelid and waits for John to obligatorily shine his small torch inside. The veins are swollen, some burst, and the broken capillaries seep pink and red to the rest of the sclera. Additionally, the small pupil of his eye is nearly swallowed by the colorless iris surrounding it. Clearly drugs-related, then.

Detective Richards, an irritable, twitchy-mustached man with pride far too large for his five-foot-three frame, steps forward and clears his throat. "Are you just about done staring at that man's eyes? He isn't gonna blink any time soon,"

Sherlock snaps the torch off and glares down at the man. He doesn't bother dignifying such a stupid remark with a response.

Annoyed at being ignored, the Detective continues, "We surmise that this man was drugged out of his wits and marked by a gang, most probably over a drug dispute that ended badly. Open and shut case, Mr. Holmes," his beady eyes narrow in distaste, "So I'm not exactly sure why you've been called down here,"

"Yes, judging by the inconsistent mess you call "evidence", I can see you are not _'exactly sure'_ about a lot of things, Detective. And you'd like to know why I am here? Well, since you are also quite poor at arriving at conclusions, I shall save you some time and precious brain power by explaining that you lot are entirely_ wrong_ and I was called in to do something _right,"_

"_Excuse me_? Listen,_ freak_, I don't see how you can call yourself my superior when _I_ am the one with the badge and _you_ are the one with the useless lackey and nonexistent credentials,"

Sherlock puts the torch down beside the man's head and whirls around to face the snarling detective. "Do _not _speak of my colleague like that, Richards. And I _am_ your superior. Paper documents and shiny badges mean virtually nothing when there is a dead body on a slab and you are too _thunderously_ idiotic to realize how he died and too _incredibly _stupid to care,"

By now, the rest of the officers have backed up to leave the two in the center of the room. They circle each other like snarling dogs preparing to strike. "_Do not speak to me like that in my office, Mr. Holmes! _And if you call me stupid one more time…," he trails off, face red with anger, "And we have the bloody case solved already, so—"

"Oh? You think this was a gang-related crime, do you? So then are we going to completely ignore the four-point-five grams of antidepressants and two grams of cocaine that were found in his system? Oh, that's right, you didn't bloody_ know_ there were self-consumed drugs in his system, did you? Because although your reports vaguely mention drugs, you all drew the conclusion that they were some form of extremely potent benzodiazepines used to sedate him, when in reality all of the drugs found in this man's system were deliberately ingested,"

"Sherlock—"

"Not now, John, I'm not nearly finished. I've yet to even touch upon the ridiculous 'gang marking' nonsense this lot made up about the _fully consented_ tattoos on his chest,"

The detective glowers. "Listen, Mr. fancy-London-crime solver, we do not need any of your help down here, in fact I'm not quite sure how you even heard about this case. We have everything handled so I'd appreciate it if you took your snarky comments and smart arse back to where you came from, thank you very goddamn much,"

Sherlock laughs, but it sounds more like a cruel bark of amazement than anything. "And just when I truly believed your stupidity had reached maximum levels,"

"Call me stupid _one more time_, Mr. Holmes…"

"Excuse me, Detective, but I believe you've made that unfinished threat at least several times today, so either you're being extremely repetitive or you simply cannot count past _one,"_

The man audibly growls and clenches his fists at his sides, fuming in silent anger.

From across the room, Sherlock watches John purse his lips and glance around the tense group. Since his face is extremely expressive, Sherlock can read his thoughts like a book_: okay things are getting a bit strained here, we should probably give them a bit of time to cool off even though they are most certainly being idiots. It will probably be in our best interest if the detectives working on this case don't hate our guts_. _Time to take Sherlock for a little 'talk' to give them a break._

As predicted, John sighs and takes Sherlock by the crook of his arm, "Come with me for a mo', yes?" But John doesn't wait for a response, because he's already dragging Sherlock into an empty office by the time it even occurs to Sherlock that he should answer.

Sherlock is not entirely certain how John can maintain so calm in the presence of these imbeciles, because it has taken _every ounce_ of Sherlock's patience to refrain from tearing out fist after fist of his own hair. The evidence and subsequent conclusions one ought to draw are _right bloody there_, yet they all insist that the fantastical story Detective Richards has cooked up is the most likely one.

John more or less shoves him inside, then turns to close the door. He leans against the wall and chuckles tiredly. He runs a hand down his face.

"John—"

"I know: they're idiots. I'm no consulting detective myself and even _I_ can see the great inconsistencies in this case,"

"That's because you are clever, John. They quite plainly are not,"

"Okay, but even though I agree with you that does not mean I agree with your methods of handling the situation," he pauses, rolls his eyes, "I know that indignant look on your face, Sherlock: save your breath, I know you'll say that you will 'do whatever you please' or something to that extent. I'm only saying this because we are going to get nowhere with this daft lot if you continue snapping at them; they aren't the Yard, they will not just stand there and silently take it,"

"But it's what I _do_, John. I snap. I seethe. I hiss. It isn't my fault that they are too feeble-minded to look past their feelings of inferiority and mediocrity to view the facts clearly,"

"I know, it's just—"

There is a brief pounding at the door, before it swings open and Detective Richards, flanked by two of his officers, enter. He peers at the two of them, mustache twitching in anger. "Sorry, boys, hate to have interrupted your little _date_, but could we kindly get back to the damned case? Or, better yet, arrange your plans to return home?"

John glares. "We are in the middle of a discussion, detective, it would be lovely if you permitted us a bit of privacy,"

"Oh, a bit of privacy? I'm sorry, Mr. Walton, it didn't occur to me that we were hosting a social event—here I thought this was an actual case in an actual police station! Silly me!" Spittle flies from his mouth. "When I was told two professionals were coming down to look into our case, I didn't realize one would require intermittent breaks to compose his basket case of a partner," he snarls over John's shoulder, eyes fixed angrily on Sherlock. "Do try to keep the freak on a damned leash, will you, Mr. Walton?"

John, who'd previously looked only annoyed, is now shaking with suppressed fury. He clenches his steady hands into fists and stares at the Detective as if deciding where to land his first punch. His eyes linger on the man's face and Sherlock can already see thirty seconds into the future wherein Detective Richards will have a broken nose and John's knuckles will be covered with his blood. It's a bit early in the case for hospital bills, especially ones that aren't even their own.

As Sherlock watches John grow progressively angrier, he oddly finds himself calming down. It's as if an invisible balance is evening their collective emotions out, so that neither one of them is too angry or too relaxed. Sherlock clears his throat and steps in front of John, both out protectiveness and for the sake of stopping John from charging at the idiot before them. In one flat stream of degradation Sherlock says:

"You will address him as Dr. Watson, not Mr. Watson, or John, and least of all _Mr. Walton_, you imbecile. Though I'm well aware the power to correctly recall names exceeds your mental abilities, _do _attempt to properly title the kinder half of the pair that is currently assisting you and your hopeless department with this case, because I can guarantee winning me over will not be so easy. Or_ possible_, at this point."

The detective stares back, his face as red as the ketchup stain on his tie, lips moving wordlessly beneath his mustache. "How—don't—dare you—in my office—you,"

Sherlock flicks his collar upwards and gathers his scarf from John. "Come now, John," he says, cheerily. "Let's go. It'll be about twenty minutes before he is able to coherently form a sentence, so we might as well do something interesting in the meantime,"

John stops clenching his fists and nods, his features smoothing over into mock pleasantness. "Yes, grand idea. It was lovely speaking to you, detective, but we're obviously not going to accomplish much today, so if you decide that you'd like to listen to Sherlock tomorrow, please do not hesitate to call us up. With an adequate apology prepared, of course. Until then," John offers him a final, false smile before storming out the door with Sherlock following behind.

"I deeply dislike that man," John snaps as they walk out of the building, in a tone that suggests he more than just _dislikes _him. _Despise _is probably more accurate.

"Yes, I'm not particularly fond, either," Sherlock tucks his hands into his pockets and ducks his head. "He called you _Mr. Walton_ for christ's sake. I daresay Anderson would make for better company,"

John chuckles. "That's quite the statement. Are you sure you'd like to insult him to such an extreme extent?"

Sherlock huffs out a laugh in response, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, yes. I never thought it possible, but I have successfully found a man even more unpleasant than Phillip Anderson,"

The weather in Kent is fairly nice - as John would say, because Sherlock doesn't care about things like _weather _- now that the harsh wind has simmered down to a cool breeze and the solid roof of clouds are starting to allow a bit of greyish sunlight to break through. The air smells crisp with a faint hint of coffee from the shop a few streets down.

They walk down the sidewalk in the direction of their hotel, chins tucked in the layers of scarfs looping their necks, gloved fingers shoved into pockets.

"Do you think he'll call us back?" John asks in the lobby, room key moving nervously from one hand to the other. John appears to think he is at fault; he thinks that if they lose this case it is because of him, not Sherlock.

Strange.

"Yes, yes, of course. Tomorrow morning at the earliest and tomorrow night at the latest; however long it takes for his pride to simmer down. Mycroft wants this dealt with and dealt with it shall be. One ridiculous man with a bloody gopher on his upper lip is not going to stand in the way,"

"A gopher?" John's eyes twinkle with mirth. "Brilliant description, though I thought it looked more like a weasel the way it was jumping about on his face,"

Sherlock outright laughs at that, a long deep rumble of joy that seems to go on for ages. Before he knows it, John has joined him and they're leaning against the wall of the corridor, breathless and giggling, just like their first night together when they chased after the cab.

...

"John, you are not sleeping on the floor," Sherlock states, already peeling back the duvet and climbing in as if his word is final and the problem has been solved.

"Sherlock, I really don't mind it, I've slept on the floor before,"

Sherlock slides into the left side of the bed and wiggles his toes underneath the tightly tucked-in sheets. "Good for you. I've eaten a red beetle before, but that doesn't mean I'm going to do so for breakfast. There. Now that we've both shared pointless experiences that have no bearing in the present, you can stop being foolish and _get into bed,"_

John still looks doubtful. "Sherlock…"

He huffs and dramatically throws himself on his back to glare at the ceiling. "Really, John? Do you really care about what people think_ that_ much? There are no hidden cameras in here, no one's waiting behind the door to pop out and snap a picture, the world will continue in its endless revolutions whether you get into this bed or not. Frankly, if your heterosexuality is still in question despite the masses of women you date, then whoever you are attempting to convince is not worth it," Sherlock turns his back to John to face the wall, an unfamiliar ache settling somewhere behind his rib cage.

And yes, maybe it hurts just a little that John is so repulsed by the idea of sharing a bed that he is willing to sleep on the floor, but _whatever. _Sherlock doesn't care.

Sherlock can't see his face, but when John speaks, he sounds…confused. Surprised, too. "Wait, you think I don't want to share a bed because people will think I'm gay?" He laughs softly, as if to say _'oh you silly, silly man',_ "Jesus, Sherlock, who cares about that? As you've said: people do little else other than talk, so there's no use in worrying over it. No, I was just a bit reluctant because you have a tendency to sprawl yourself across the entire mattress, and I wasn't sure if sharing a bed would be uncomfortable for you. I mean, being confined to a smaller space, and all,"

Sherlock blinks. John was going to sleep on the floor because he thought _Sherlock_ would prefer that? The cold feeling quickly morphs into a steady burn, coloring him red with flush all the way from his neck to the tips of his cheekbones. He turns to face John.

"I don't mind,"

"Okay, I'll get in after I brush my teeth. One mo'" John turns and pads into the small bathroom, blue toothbrush in tow.

Sherlock lays on his back and attempts to sort the events of the day – a sleeping John on his shoulder, the hug, cinnamon, the idiotic detective, laughing in the hallways, a smorgasbord of warm smiles and casual touches - and finds a low thrum of anticipation vibrating in his bones. He can't focus. There are bees under his skin, there must be, because his body is practically buzzing with both nausea and excitement at the same time. It's the same spike of adrenaline that usually accompanies a particularly dangerous case.

Reality: He is going to sleep beside John.

Yes, it's platonic – at least to John – but Sherlock has a feeling that somehow this is going to bring change. They are reaching a pinnacle here, of what he isn't sure, but its importance is undeniable.

John exits the bathroom in a cotton t-shirt that smells like laundry detergent and grey sweatpants that Sherlock amusedly notes once belonged to Harry. He stretches his arms over his head, ambles over to the bed, peels back the covers and climbs in as if this is just part of their typical routine. He shifts around for a bit – they are now precisely six inches apart – before reaching over to turn off the lamp light, shrouding the room in darkness.

Minutes later, when John clears his throat to speak, Sherlock expects him to say something akin to 'goodnight' and have that be the end of it, but instead he says, "If you hadn't ushered us out of that police station when you had, I swear I would have chinned Detective Richards,"

Sherlock smiles at the dark ceiling. "Yes, I know," he pauses, "But why?"

John scoffs and adjusts himself so that he is on his side, facing Sherlock. Sherlock listens to the sheets rustle and waits for John's response. "Because he was a git, that's why,"

"We've met people just as unpleasant as him before and you've never tried to punch them. What specifically did he do that made you so angry?"

"He called you a freak!" John sputters, as if that answer is obvious. "Do you not remember?"

Sherlock is confused. "Yes, of course I recall. Photographic memory. But I don't see why that would prompt you to hit him,"

There is a beat of surprised silence, then John laughs softly; not because Sherlock's confusion is humorous, but because John seems to find it…endearing. Again, he appears to consider the answer obvious. "Sherlock. You're my best friend; _of course_ I get angry when people insult you to your face like that. I hate when Donovan does it too, but I can't exactly throw a punch at her, can I? It's just a quirk of mine I suppose; overprotectiveness. I'm sorry if it bothers you,"

John was protecting him. Sherlock is John's _best friend._

Oh.

Well, isn't that an interesting feeling. Warmth pools in Sherlock's chest and spreads from his quickly-beating heart to the tips of his curled toes.

"N-no, I don't mind. No need to apologize," he feels another question bubbling up in his throat, but it sounds so needy that he initially resists voicing it. However, since there is something especially liberating about the dark, he finds himself quietly confirming, "I'm your best friend?"

Because John did not mean that, he _couldn't have._ Sherlock has never had a friend, let alone a _best friend_. Even in his wildest dreams he never imagined he'd meet someone like John, who is loved by all and could easily have a number of people in his life, but for some reason chooses _Sherlock,_ the ill-mannered, socially-unaware consulting detective_. _

_Why?_

John is by far the most confusing puzzle he's ever encountered.

John doesn't seem to realize how perplexing the idea is for Sherlock. "Of course you are, Sherlock," he answers easily. No thought required. Stated like a well-known fact. "How could you be anything less? You're—" John yawns, "fantastic."

"You're fantastic too," Sherlock replies, without thinking. The words come out sounding rushed and childish in their eagerness. Sherlock's face goes ruddy and he is grateful for the blanket of darkness.

"Glad it's a mutual thought, then," Faint light from the moon glints off of John's teeth as he grins. "Goodnight, Sherlock," John says around another yawn. He sighs contently and tugs the sheet around his shoulders. "May we both have _fantastic_ dreams."

...

When Sherlock wakes up, the first thing he notices is the overwhelming warmth surrounding him. How unfamiliar. At home he cocoons himself in a thin silk sheet and sleeps beneath a drafty open window, so he is accustomed to waking up cold. At the moment however, he is intertwined quite intricately with something that is warm and cinnamon/laundry soap-scented, which is both a new and entirely pleasing start to his day. His eyes are sticky with sleep so he doesn't bother trying to open them.

This feels nice. The sun is shining through a window to the left, warming the duvet, the side of Sherlock's face, and whatever solid mass he is burrowed into. He nuzzles his face further into the warmth and sighs. This is lovely, isn't it? This is pleasant. This is—

This is John's chest.

Suddenly alert, Sherlock stiffens and attempts to catalogue their exact position without moving a muscle, in fear of waking John. Okay, so his cheek is pressed somewhere along John's chest, yes that's John's chin on top of his head, and his right arm is slung across John's abdomen. Now for the legs…ah, so his right leg is curled over John's straightened legs, and his left leg is bent and pressed next to his right leg. What's that warm spot on his shoulder blades? Oh: it's John's hand. Okay. Splayed fingers, slight pressure.

This is interesting.

It appears that John - consciously or subconsciously, Sherlock would rather not analyze which at the moment – has allowed Sherlock to curl around him like a monkey in their sleep.

And, yes, as ineloquent as that sounds, that is really the only thing Sherlock can liken himself to: a monkey. Because he is practically_ clinging _to John at the moment. Not that he is complaining, or anything.

Positions figured out, Sherlock now must analyze the situation itself. First: Sherlock never sleeps for more than three hours a night unless some kind of heavy sedative is involved, yet according to the room's clock, he has just slept for _nine straight hours_. Second: this is the most comfortable Sherlock has ever felt in his entire life, dreamy cocaine highs and all. Third: he really did not think he'd be this invested in – egad, even though this feels wonderful, saying the word is painful – _cuddling. _Yet he is._ Clearly._

It's strange, but this somehow feels natural. If Sherlock can temporarily ignore the shock and heart-stopping joy he is feeling at this new experience, he can almost imagine himself waking up like this on a regular basis. And wouldn't that be smashing?

Sherlock has never before understood why it is so great to wake up next to someone you love, but now that he has done so himself, he empathizes completely.

Wait. He's done so himself? Love. John. This. _What?_

Sherlock's eyes widen and his heart nearly stutters to a halt.

And so, it is on a sunny morning in Kent, wrapped around the man in question, that Sherlock Holmes realizes that he is indeed in love with John Watson.

_Bugger._

* * *

**_A/N: So, _what did you think? Love it, hate it? All comments and criticisms are welcomed with open arms and chocolate chip cookies.:) Thank you so much for reading, loves! The next update will come sooner, because I already have most of chapter three already written out. **

**Until next time, darlings! **


	3. Of Emotions, Cases, and Love

**A/N: Hey guys! So, as I was writing this I realized I have a tendency to lean towards certain Johnlock tropes: Protective!John and Protective!Sherlock, Pining!Sherlock , John running his fingers through Sherlock's hair (idk, this may be because Benedict just has such lovely hair that I assume anyone would run their fingers through it if given the chance) and Meddling/Protective Older Brother!Mycroft. Also, the Mycroft-diet-jokes are my favorite thing ever.**

**ANYWAY: I am having so much fun writing this story and I just wanted to thank all of you guys that have commented or favorited this, because it means more than you know. This was one of my favorite chapters to write, I hope you guys like it! Enjoy~**

* * *

_I'm in love with John. _

For the span of several decades, Sherlock just lays there, frozen, staring unseeingly at the wall. A sickening combination of shock and denial twist inside his chest and if he does not leave _right this second_ and get some fresh, ice-cold, nearly hypothermic air he is very well going to vomit all over the both of them, which would be a decidedly bad way to start a morning. Sherlock carefully extricates himself from the tangle of limbs, rolling from the bed and onto the floor with the harried gracelessness of a man in panic. His mind immediately attempts to review the realization that just occurred several feet to his right, but he refuses to entertain it until he is a safe distance from this bed, this hotel, and most importantly, John.

In fact, he refuses to even look at John's mellow, sleeping form. He refuses to pay attention to the lovely peaceful expression he is wearing. He shows no interest in the way John looks so young right now, innocent and pliant and utterly content.

No, Sherlock doesn't care one bit about any of that.

He feels like he needs a shower first, though. Perhaps some nice, freezing jets of water will clear his mind and allow his heart to calm the bloody hell down. Yes, that's what he needs. A shower.

Without a second thought, he sweeps into the bathroom and slams the door shut. Belatedly, he wonders if he should've been quieter so as not to wake John, but then brushes it off because even if he _has_ woken him, John hardly has the right to complain since it isn't _John _that is currently having a crisis in a hotel bathroom.

He discovers rather quickly that he is far too tall for the shower head. The jet of water only hits his collarbones, so in order to wet his hair and face he is forced to bend his knees and hunch underneath the spray like some awkward, gangly giant. His annoyance is only furthered when he is met with the repulsive, silicon-filled shampoo the hotel has made available. To make matters worse, there is only enough gel to wash about two-thirds of his hair. Irritated beyond belief, Sherlock empties the bottle's entire contents over his wet, curly head, resigning himself to the terrible itch that'll undoubtedly plague him later. _Stupid, cheap, silicon shampoo._

He runs his fingers through his wet hair and decides that this is as good a time as any to confront the jarring—_genuine_—thought that occurred to him whilst curled around John. He takes a deep breath. He needs to try and say it out loud, that'll make it real. That way he'll know for sure if he actually meant it or if it was just an in-the-moment fancy.

He screws his eyes shut, clenches both fists, and grits out, "I am in love with John Hamish Watson,"

He waits for a moment with bated breath, but when the universe remains intact and the entire population does not simultaneously keel over in shock, he hesitantly cracks one eye open. He is irrationally surprised to find that virtually nothing has changed. He feels exactly the same as he did yesterday and the day before that. Better, even.

Okay then. That's that.

"I love John," he says, experimentally. It has a surprisingly delightful ring to it. "I am indeed in love with my flat mate. I love a former army doctor. I love a man that types with two fingers. The one that I love has an unfortunate affection for ugly jumpers. The object of my love is named John. Dr. Watson. I love _John."_

Sherlock continues babbling gleefully to himself, his sudden ascension into a good mood silencing his urge to fuss over the hotel's lack of decent conditioner. Something warm and bubbly swells in his chest and he finds himself powerless to resist the huge, beaming smile that spreads across his face. Not only has he been gifted with clarity—he certainly knows how to define his feelings for John now—but he is also experiencing the strangest, giddiest feeling of his life. He feels as if all of his blood has been replaced with champagne and fireworks.

Is this what love feels like for other people too? This exciting, swooning sensation that sends sparks from the top of the spine to the ends of each toe?

Sherlock loves John and it feels _delicious._

He finishes his shower with great enthusiasm. The world somehow looks three shades brighter than before; even the dingy bathroom seems a bit prettier now that he is _officially_ in love. Oh, this is just wonderful. As he towels his hair dry, he finally allows himself to happily reminisce on this morning, wherein he was snuggled into John's steadily rising chest, with John's warm, rough palm splayed across his shoulder blades almost _protectively._

Sherlock hums in pleasure and dresses quickly. He needs to talk to John right now.

He pushes open the bathroom door with gusto. "John, I must speak to you,"

But John is not lounging in bed like he expected. Instead he is standing outside on the balcony, fully dressed, holding his mobile to his ear and conversing enthusiastically. Sherlock blinks, his grand mood deflating. _Laura._

Sherlock suddenly finds himself feeling thunderous. He storms across the room, grabs his coat, and flings it from the rack. Of course he immediately decides he'd rather wear it, so after he picks it up and puts it on he throws John's coat from the rack instead. There: that's better. He notices that John, who still possesses cleaning habits from his days of service, has unnecessarily made the bed. Sherlock strides over and promptly rips the sheets from their neatly tucked in corners, sending blankets and pillows flying about the room in disarray. Yes, this is childish, but it feels vindictive and petty and _good._

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stands in the middle of the messy room, watching as John eagerly gesticulates a story to Laura. Sherlock can only see bits of his expression since he is pacing and constantly moving in and out of his vision, but John looks quite happy. Even from here Sherlock can see that John's blue eyes are sparkling with laughter and enjoyment. He looks relaxed, he looks pleased.

An abrupt, jarring sadness quells the burning anger in Sherlock's stomach.

He exhales through his nose and suddenly feels quite boneless. Not ten minutes ago he was practically floating, and now all he'd like to do is lie here and feel sorry for himself. Because unfortunately Sherlock forgot to take into account the _reciprocal_ aspect of love—or, in this case, the lack thereof.

He sinks onto the bed and lies atop the pile of disheveled, fluffy blankets. He stares at the ceiling with a scowl. For a man who typically possesses the emotional changeability of chair, this is entirely too many feelings for one morning. He started off in denial, then accepting, then gleefully, deliriously happy, then positively furious, and finally, absolutely dejected. He is quite exhausted now, actually.

He wonders if he should call someone and talk about this. For one brief moment of insanity he considers Mycroft, but thankfully his wits return to him before _that_ atrocity of a plan is carried out. Gavin is out of the question, being that he's hardly adept enough to solve cases, let alone navigate Sherlock's personal problems. Mrs. Hudson would be a viable option, except she is staying with her sister at the moment and Sherlock only has her home number. That leaves Molly. Well, at least she'll be pleased to know her little "crush" theory was correct.

Deciding it will be better for both parties if Sherlock evacuates the room before John sees the mess he has made, Sherlock sweeps out the door immediately. He pauses in the hallway with his hand on the doorknob, wondering if he should leave a note. After a moment of contemplation, he dashes back inside and pulls some paper and a pen from one of the desk drawers.

_Working on case. _He pauses, hovering the pen tip over the page for a moment of hesitation, before pettiness gets the best of him and he finishes with: _Had to leave without you. You were talking with Laura for too long. SH_

Feeling very satisfied with himself, Sherlock neatly places the paper on top of the mess of sheets where John is sure to see it.

* * *

Unsure of exactly where to go, Sherlock wanders into one of Kent's many parks and seats himself on a bench. After a few minutes of jittery overthinking, he pulls out his mobile and dials Molly's number.

"Hello?" Molly's sweet, high voice sounds tinny and distant. Sherlock realizes with slight surprise that he's never actually spoken to Molly over the phone before.

"Yes, hello, Molly. How are you?" He asks cordially. He isn't quite sure how 'friends' are supposed to open a conversation, being that his only phone calls involve him shouting abuse at the Yard or listening to mum chatter on about gardening while he contributes the occasional, _'Ah, I see'. _

"Er—Sherlock? Is that you?" She sounds completely nonplussed.

"Yes, it is I. Molly, I require your assistance,"

"I don't remember giving you my number," she sounds like she is blushing and on the verge of a nervous giggle.

He sighs, already annoyed with the progression of this conversation. "No, Molly, you did not personally hand me your number but I've heard you say it several times throughout the years that I've known you so it was not exactly grueling to recall a mere eleven digits. Now then, like I said, I need your help,"

"Okay," she says, agreeably, "with what?"

"Well," he begins, but finds that the words are stuck in his throat. He takes a deep breath and quickly attempts to articulate his dilemma. "You see, you were quite right when you said I had romantic feelings for John, though I had not recognized them myself until quite recently. It happened when I woke up next to John after we slept together—"

"You _what?"_

Confused, Sherlock starts to repeat himself, before the double meaning of his words hits him square in the face and sets his cheeks ablaze. He tugs at his collar and clears his throat. "No, not like that. I meant we shared a bed," he can hear the relieved '_oh_' from Molly, but plows on without acknowledgment. "I realized quite abruptly that I am in love with him. At first I was pleased, but then it occurred to me that he does not feel the same way at all,"

Molly hums sympathetically, but her voice sounds much sadder than the situation merits. Almost as if she is grieving something other than Sherlock's problem. "Oh, Sherlock,"

"How am I supposed to deal with this?"

Molly clears her throat and sounds rather choked up as she says, "Well, loving someone that hardly notices you is quite difficult. I can't say there is much to be done, unfortunately,"

He doesn't have time to puzzle over her melancholic tone (surely she isn't _that _empathetic?) because he immediately feels a similar sadness engulf him. Her words drift through his mind like a cold, sobering fog. "So, am I expected to just ignore my feelings? Pretend that we are only friends?"

She clears her throat. When she speaks again her voice sounds a bit watery. "Yes. It really helps to move on and meet other people. Or so I've heard."

He furrows his brow. This conversation has taken a very strange tone. For the first time in all of the five years that he has known her, Sherlock asks, "Molly, are you alright?"

The other end is silent for several beats and Sherlock wonders if she has hung up. "Molly?"

"Yes, yes I'm here," she sniffles, then covers the receiver so he can't hear whatever is happening on her end. "And…and yes, I'm okay. I'm fine, or at least I will be. I met this great bloke at work last week and I-I think I'll say yes next time he asks me out. So…yes, Sherlock, I'm alright." By the end of her strange and fairly irrelevant sentence she does sound better, so Sherlock contents himself with one final question.

"Is love worth it, Molly?"

Sounding much stronger than she has for the entire conversation, she replies, "Yes. One thousand times yes. It hurts like hell sometimes and it often leads one to look like a babbling fool, but it is the most wonderful feeling in the world once that person loves you back. Suddenly all of the shite you went through is worth it. It's such a beautiful, fragile, _rare _thing, Sherlock, and I hope you find it with John, I really do. Almost as much as I hope to find it for myself," she sniffles again, but this time she sounds tentatively happy. Sherlock realizes with no small amount of surprise that she has been crying. On the tail end of that realization, another of equal blatancy occurs to him: Molly feels for Sherlock the way Sherlock feels for John.

"Molly," Sherlock begins, wishing his voice did not sound so unsure, "You are a very important person to me," he pauses again and clears his throat. "You are a good friend. Thank you for helping me with this."

Molly is silent again, but this time it feels like she is perhaps smiling to herself on the other end rather than crying. "Thank you, Sherlock, I'm sure that wasn't easy," she teases, offering a watery chuckle. "I'm glad that we are…friends."

He can tell she is feeling better, which is a considerable achievement considering the circumstances. Despite this feeling of accomplishment, he is rather uncomfortable with the onslaught of emotions today has flung at him, so he offers Molly another genuine thank you and then says goodbye. He sets his mobile down beside him, somehow feeling both better and worse than before. It is nice to hear how wonderful love is when it is reciprocated, but that hardly improves his current situation. If anything, it has made it even more unbearable because he now knows what he is missing out on.

He sighs and begins absently deducing boring park-goers. A few minutes into it, his phone buzzes with two texts: Mycroft and John._ Obligation before pleasure,_ he thinks to himself and opens Mycroft's text:

**_Sent at: 10:30am_**

_What have I told you, brother? Caring is not an advantage. MH _

Sherlock breathes loudly through his nose. What the bloody hell, Mycroft. Must he have his fingers in _every_ pie in England? (Which is to say, both figurative _and _literal pies)

**_Sent at: 10:32am _**

_If you send me another text that does not directly pertain to the case, I will throw my phone into a river and never get a new one. SH_

**_Sent at: 10:33am _**

_Ah, but then how would dear John contact you? MH_

Sherlock glares so hard at the screen that his eyes actually feel hot. He doesn't bother deigning to reply. Instead, he stands up and roams the scenic park in hopes of returning his blood pressure to normal levels. Mycroft does agitate him so. Time slips by as he paces his way up and down the cobblestone paths, wracking his brain for solutions to his John Problem while simultaneously trying to distract himself with irrelevant thoughts so as not to think about said Problem. It's all very contradictory and tiring.

Eventually, he remembers John's text and pulls out his phone to read it, only to find that he has sent several more since:

**_Sent at: 10:30am_**

_You absolute berk! Why did you unmake the bed? This place is a disaster! JW_

**_Sent at: 10:35am_**

_And what do you mean I was taking too long! You were out the shower for ten minutes before you left, why didn't you give me a heads-up? JW_

**_Sent at: 10:50am_**

_Where are you? JW_

**_Sent at: 11:00am_**

_Sherlock answer your blasted phone right now. JW_

**_Sent at 11:15am_**

_SHELOCK. JW_

**_Sent at: 11:40am_**

_I did not come all the way to bloody Kent to sit in a hotel while you have all the fun. JW_

Sherlock immediately texts back with trademark ambiguity that he knows will both annoy and excite John:

**_Sent at: 12:05am_**

_Meet me police station. Case solved. SH_

And he is not lying, either. He solved Mycroft's case the moment he laid eyes on the man's corpse—because as it turns out the biggest obstacle in this mystery was the idiocy of Kent's investigators and their lack of substantial evidence files, not the actual case itself. The man was clearly not killed by a gang, rather his death came by his own hand. Several grams of cocaine and a handful of antidepressant tablets; quite the lethal mix.

The only reason he did not inform the simpletons—er, _detectives—_of his discovery yesterday, was because bloody Richards wouldn't let him speak three intelligent words without immediately interrupting, and it would have hardly been satisfying to just blurt out the case's conclusion without the stream of deductions that customarily followed.

Although he knows John will not like to be kept waiting at the Station, he must first run a few errands in order to collect enough evidence to appease the detectives. It'd be a much quicker process if the idiots would just take his word for gospel, but unfortunately they are especially obtuse and will require tangible proof to be convinced.

After briefly visiting a tattoo parlor and the victim's flat building, his arms are filled with a sufficient amount of evidence.

Sherlock readjusts his scarf around his neck, lifts his collar, and begins his walk to the Station. With a smirk, he imagines the utterly dumbfounded expressions the detectives will wear once he strolls into the building and solves the case before their very eyes. Despite his aversion to preserving memories, Sherlock has to fight the temptation to purchase a camera on the way, solely so he can capture Detective Richards's fuming expression as he is proved incorrect. It will undoubtedly be _priceless._

* * *

John looks somewhere between cross and amazed when Sherlock approaches him on the front steps of the Police Station and casually remarks, "I've solved it, let us inform the detectives and leave,"

John's face starts to scrunch up in annoyance, but curiosity wins him over before the scowl has time to fully form. "You solved it already? How? Where did you go?"

Aloof as anything, Sherlock lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "Details, John, are tedious and unnecessary at the moment,"

John then notices what he is carrying. "Why are you holding a laptop, a mobile, and some bloke's trousers in a box?" John narrows his eyes at the label Sherlock has messily scribbled onto it. "_'Evidence for the evi-dense?_' I'm guessing you're referring to the detectives?"

"Yes," announces Sherlock, proudly. "I was feeling rather accomplished on my way over, so I decided a bit of wordplay was in order."

John does an impressive job of hiding his amusement. "Bit cheesy, don't you think? Seems like something I would write."

In a moment of complete candidacy, Sherlock thoughtlessly replies, "Well, I was thinking about you quite a lot today so perhaps that's why." He regrets the words as soon as they leave his lips. He bites the inside of his cheek and stiffens in anticipation of John's confused-and-disturbed _'what?'_

But John just grins and rolls his eyes. "Well, Sherlock, if I knew I was going to rub off on you so easily, I would have made sure you gained my cleaning skills rather than my appreciation for puns,"

Sherlock is so surprised by John's completely relaxed response that he finds himself speechless for a moment. He clears his throat as soon as his wits return to him, averting his eyes to something that is _not_ unpredictable and wonderful and named John.

"As I said, we ought to head inside. I may have texted Richards and demanded that he and his entire team show up. Wouldn't want them to leave before the case is concluded." Sherlock turns on his heel and begins to stride up the steps.

"Wait," John stops him, his warm, rough palm firmly clasping Sherlock's shoulder. "Aren't you going to tell me how you solved it?"

Sherlock ignores John's hand and the resulting blush that is spreading on his neck and simply shakes his head. "No, but you needn't wait long, John,"

John chuckles in spite of himself, his eyes bright and playful. "You utter prat. You just want to wait until we're in a room full of people to explain the case, don't you? You and you're bloody dramatics." Then John sidles up alongside him and begins walking up the steps too.

Sherlock doesn't reply, but the undeniable fondness in John's tone inspires a smile that he is powerless to conceal.

* * *

Unlike John, Detective Richards is not exactly charmed to find Sherlock has solved the case on his own.

"You _what_? How?" His mustache is twitching angrily, face as red as boiled tomatoes.

Calmly, Sherlock replies, "Yes, Richards, I did. The man's name is Joseph Malloy and he was not killed by a drug-gang; he killed himself in his room with about eight antidepressant tablets and several grams of cocaine. Afterwards, he was discovered by his flat mate—"

"Whoa, hold on just a minute. The body was discovered on a _beach,_ Mr. Holmes," he corrects tersely, "not the victim's room. And even if that was the case, how could you possibly know he was found by the flat mate?"

Sherlock glares down at him and scowls. "If you would just let me finish without your inane interruptions you'll perhaps find out," he peers around the room at the several investigators and detectives, daring one to say something. To his satisfaction, no one speaks. "As I was saying: Joseph killed himself in his room—physique says homebody, autopsy identifies the lethal amount of drugs, thus: in-house suicide by overdose—and soon after he died, he was discovered by his flat mate. His financial records will easily verify that he had a flat mate by the way, in case you have doubts," he directs that particular comment at Richards, "Now, this of course begs the question: if Joseph died in his room by his own means, who would move the body to the beach and risk incriminating themselves? Well, that answer is slightly more complex. You see, Joseph and his flat mate did not get on, and their animosity towards each other can easily be deduced from the items found in his room," Sherlock gestures to the box he has set on the table. "Many of his personal articles are in mint condition, indicating that he took very good care of his things. However, other items such as his mobile, laptop, and several pieces of clothing, are in poor condition. Look at these scuff marks here, and the cracked screen here; clearly, this damage was done by someone else. That 'someone else' was his flat mate, Gregory Paulson.

"The two often 'pranked' each other by messing with the other's possessions. But three days ago, Gregory became particularly malicious and went too far. He filled a mint tin with ecstasy tablets and slipped them into Joseph's room, in hopes of humiliating the man while he was unintentionally high. Little did Gregory know, Joseph was already doing a hefty amount of drugs in secret. Three days ago while Gregory was out, one suicidal Joseph Malloy began ingesting the pills and cocaine. In the throes of death, he swayed and knocked over the tin of 'mints', scattering them across the floor. When Gregory returned, he took one look at the dead body and spilled tablets, and drew the logical conclusion that Joseph had overdosed on ecstasy. Thinking he killed Joseph, he threw his body into the back of his truck and drove to the nearest place he could dump a corpse: the ocean. There, he stripped him of his clothes and identifications in hopes that the body would never be identified and traced back to him. As we all know, Joseph eventually washed up on shore. Gregory has not yet left the country, though that is subject to change, being that he is still convinced that he is a murderer."

Complete and utter silence falls across the crowd of investigators and detectives. Sherlock experiences a brief sting of regret when he glances at Richards's dumbfounded expression and remembers he does not have a camera to capture it.

Weakly, Detective Richards asks, "And the severed tongue?"

"Bitten off during a seizure that occurred seconds prior to his death."

"And… and as you said, he had no identifications on him, so how do you know who he is?"

"Quite simple. The tattoo on his chest—the one you lot wrongly assumed was a gang marking—was designed and inked by a local tattoo artist, who luckily keeps a very organized log of his clients. I simply showed him a photograph and he immediately recognized the design. It took minutes to find the identity of the man,"

"But-but how could you be sure about the ecstasy tablets?

"Well, today I visited his flat and inspected his room—"

"How did you get into the flat?" Richards interrupts, accusingly.

Sherlock's eyes flash. "The door was unlocked. Didn't I say Gregory left in a hurry?" (And yes, perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but the fact that Sherlock picked the lock is hardly relevant) "Anyway, I found the empty mint tin kicked underneath the bed as well as the granules of an ecstasy tablet that had been crushed into the carpet, probably by Gregory's shoe. The rest had been haphazardly tossed into the bin. I made sure to place some into an evidence bag, if you'd like to see for yourself,"

Detective Richards, still reluctant to accept that Sherlock's theory has no holes, furrows his brow. "Okay…but how can you prove the drugs belong to Gregory?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "His room is stashed with several types of drugs, each far less benign than ecstasy. If you go to his mother's house—where he is currently hiding—and put him under questioning he will confess within minutes. He's a jittery young man with frequent anxiety attacks—the neurotic nail marks on his furniture, the obsessive cleanliness of his room, not to mention the paranoia that naturally accompanies drug use—so it is unlikely that he will hold up very long under questioning. In the unlikely case that he does not confess, I recommend getting a search warrant and looking around his flat with drug-sniffing dogs and a few investigators with more than half a brain. That should provide you with all of the evidence you need. Although Gregory is no murderer, he still possesses enough illegal substances to earn a lengthy sentence." He pauses to take a deep breath and assess the room, finding the crowd just as shocked and silent as before.

"Now then!" Sherlock says, loudly clapping his hands together, effectively shaking the group of out their daze. "In summation, this was a suicide not a murder, and the dead man's flat mate is currently hording about ten thousand pounds worth of drugs in his flat. Arrest Gregory, bury Joseph. Consider your case _solved._"

John, who has managed to keep his comments at bay throughout the entire explanation, blurts out, "That…that was _brilliant_, Sherlock!" And the genuine eagerness of his words makes Sherlock's skin tingle. "Absolutely bloody fantastic." He sounds just as amazed as when they first met, and in Sherlock's opinion _that_ is what is truly fantastic.

Sherlock is so busy staring adoringly at John that it takes him a full ten seconds to register the gradually-building applause that is filling the room. He blinks in surprise and turns his focus away from John's grin, realizing that all of the detectives and investigators—save for Richards—are applauding him. Beneath the din, he can hear people saying things like, _"I knew he was a genius, but that was incredible"_ and _"Mad but brilliant" _and, "_What the bloody hell is Richards doing in charge when there's a guy like that around?"_

It should be wonderful and gratifying, but in truth it just makes him feel wildly uncomfortable. He 'gets his kicks' from earning begrudging statements like, "Yeah, you were right, Sherlock", because he knows how to respond to that. But, actual praise? He has no bloody clue what to do.

Feeling quite awkward, he shoves his hands in his coat and raises his chin, expression unmoved and distant. To any observer it looks as if he hasn't even noticed the cheering crowd surrounding him. He is just about to make a hasty exit, when he feels a warm hand press against his back and guide him away from the center of the group. Sherlock blinks down at John, who is for whatever reason smiling at him like he just saved a litter of kittens from a tree. The applause peters out as they walk away, and the detectives' attention returns to the box of evidence and files Sherlock placed on the table.

"It's alright to smile, you know. People were congratulating you; they're impressed," John reminds him patiently, once they've reached the outskirts of the crowd. John's smile mellows down, but his eyes remain overbright and sparkling. "You're a bloody wonder, you know that?"

Sherlock swallows, a wave of gooseflesh rolling down his arms. "Not really, John, it was hardly a difficult case."

"Really now? Because it had them stumped, and there's no way anyone else besides you could have figured it out."

Sherlock has the briefest urge to remind John that Mycroft could have solved it too, but any mention of his brother is unsavory at best so he decides against it. However, with that response nixed, he has no idea what to say. He is thoroughly frustrated by his own uncharacteristic inarticulacy. "Well, I mean, I'm sure if they just looked, er, harder, they could've—"

John stops him with a raised hand. "Sherlock, this is me trying to give you a compliment. I know I always say that you are brilliant, because you are, but this time I am _officially _complimenting you. The typical response is 'thank you'."

Sherlock blinks. Ever since the emotional rollercoaster ride that followed his Big Realization this morning, Sherlock has not really allowed himself to think about his feelings for John. There is just too much going on at the moment to give the matter the attention and deliberation it deserves. Hours ago, he decided he will figure it out on the train ride back home while John is taking another nap. However, John is making it rather difficult to stick with that plan since he keeps doing wonderful little things that force Sherlock's feelings for him to explode through his veins and heart and mind in a way that is quite impossible to ignore.

"Well, thank you, John," Sherlock says at last, face uncomfortably warm. John beams.

"Now that we've got that all wrapped up, what do you say we head back to the hotel, pack up, and then get the next train to London?"

"Yes, let's." He raises his collar and readjusts his gloves. "Kindly inform Richards that we will be departing," he tells a nearby detective, caring very little that he is already engaged in a conversation with someone else. "Adieu." Sherlock calls, airily, before throwing the doors open and leaving the Station in a dramatic swoosh of his black coat.

* * *

"Sherlock, will you please sit still?"

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock finds that solving his John Problem is rather difficult while John is running his fingers through his hair. So much for his plans of having a good long think on the way back to London.

Sherlock huffs. "John, we are on a _train_. I am not the one jostling about, it's this entire bloody vehicle. And for the last time: I am fine! I am not on the brink of a concussion, nor do I have any wounds that require medical attention."

John gives him a look of mock-conviction. "Oh really? You're fine? Then pray tell me: what is this?" John pulls his right hand out from within Sherlock's curls and shows him the smear of red on his fingertips. "Because from a doctor's standpoint, I'd say this is a little medical phenomenon we like to call 'blood'. Amazing thing, blood. In most cases, it tends to be a result of something else we call a 'wound'."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As always, John, your sarcasm is not appreciated. And besides, all I did was hit my head against a wall. I assure you, far worse has befallen me. "

John ignores him. "Sherlock, please explain to me why you felt the need to tell that man about his wife's affair_, in his wife's presence_? Or at all, really? You're lucky all he managed to do was push you into that wall; big bloke like that could've done far worse damage." John digs into his carry-on bag for a salve to ease the pain, temporarily distracted from his scolding.

Sherlock pouts, unconcerned with how juvenile it may look. "If you've forgotten, John, he tried to start a fight with you first. Big, brawny, brainless fool like that was trying to start something with every bloke he came across today, you were just unfortunate enough to be the last one. He knocked into your bad shoulder on purpose, John! He wanted to push you around a bit to show off to his wife; if I hadn't said something he would've hit you."

John is silent as he carefully dabs the salve along the base of Sherlock's hairline and along the nape of his neck. Sherlock, despite his whining, sighs softly in relief as the cream saps most of the pain away. Without thinking, he pushes his head further into John's careful hand, causing John's entire palm to press against the top of Sherlock's skull. Almost tentatively, he drags his fingers through Sherlock's curls, still silent and seemingly transfixed on the task. The exploration quickly loses it medical purpose when John gently brushes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead with his entire palm, slowly running over the curls in an appreciative manner. A pleased, involuntary noise rumbles in Sherlock's throat and John is snapped back to reality. Almost reluctantly, he withdraws his hand.

"Sherlock, are you saying you were protecting me?"

Sherlock blinks languidly, absurdly pacified from that brief touch. Dear god if John ever figures out that the key to a calm Sherlock is his sensitive scalp, he'll be absolutely done for. "Yes, of course," Sherlock replies, unthinkingly. "I don't want you to ever get hurt, if I can help it."

John is quiet for a moment and then he huffs out a little chuckle, a smile spreading on his face. He leans back in his seat and faces the front, but he lays his hand over Sherlock's. Not quite holding it, just allowing the two of them to touch. "I suppose I'm lucky I met you," he muses, "And visa-versa, being that you and I are always saving each other and all."

Sherlock nods. John's hand feels warm and rough and if he were in any state of mind to deduce, he'd know that there are exactly four paper cuts along his index finger, a blister on the heel of his palm, and residual soap from the hotel bathroom in the crease of his wrist. However, Sherlock decides that a moment like this ought to be savored instead of analyzed, so he closes his eyes, tunes out his mind, and revels in the feeling.

* * *

The very afternoon that Sherlock and John return to London, Lestrade bombards them with a new case. Unlike in the past, he does not text Sherlock first and ask nicely, nor does he subtly leave a pile of files on his front porch. Instead, Lestrade just knocks on the door of their flat, bold as brass, and hands Sherlock a case file clipped to a stack of photos.

"Listen, I know you lot just got off a case, but I've been sitting on this one for the days you were gone and I'm unashamed to say the Yard needs your help, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs wearily and snatches the file from Lestrade. "You say that as if it is remarkable, Gavin. When_ hasn't_ the Yard required my assistance?"

Lestrade narrows his eyes. "First off all, it's _Greg_, for the fifth time this month. Secondly, I don't care how it makes us look, we just really need you to look at this one. Serial murderer on the loose, but we suspect that he isn't very clever because most of the victims have been found and identified quite easily, and he has left his weapon of choice at the crime scene more than once. It just reeks of amateurism. Our problem is, we can't find the common thread between the victims; right now they've seemingly been killed at random. Being that we can't find a connection, it's very difficult to pin down a suspect. We've gathered data on more than two dozen possible killers, but now we're stumped. "

Sherlock nods, only half listening as he leafs through the file and makes his own observations about the killer. Lestrade is definitely correct about this being an amateur, but he is completely wrong in his assumption that the killings are random. The one thing that each victim has in common is clearly money, meaning that the killer is someone that is most likely quite young and homeless. He robs people and then he kills him. The crime scenes seem absurdly easy to figure out because they _are_; there is no finesse to these murders, this is merely the result of a desperate, penniless man who knows nothing other than how to wield a knife. Sherlock snaps the file shut, effectively cutting off whatever Lestrade was in the middle of saying.

"This shouldn't take long. Go back to the Yard and gather all of the suspects' files, I can look through them and align my theories with a guilty party. I'll grab my coat and John and I will meet you there in a half hour."

"Sherlock, don't you think John may be a bit tired from all the casework already?"

Sherlock waves that idea away. "John didn't get to do much hands-on work in Kent, and this case seems like it will involve a chase at some point, so he will definitely be interested."

Lestrade rolls his eyes and turns to leave. "You lot get stranger and stranger every day. See you in a half."

* * *

It takes Sherlock less than ten minutes to sift through the thick stack of suspects and find the killer. Just as Lestrade is preparing to assemble a team to scour the city for him, Sherlock points out that the man can be easily tracked by his homeless network. At the word "homeless", Donovan's face scrunches up in distaste.

"You run a network of tramps? Can hardly say I'm surprised to be honest," she scoffs and looks to Anderson. "Should've known Freak would have his own little gang of misfits to guide around."

John bristles. "Sorry, what was that, Donovan? You said you'd rather have a killer on the loose than resort to Sherlock's homeless network?"

Donovan glares at the pair of them but says nothing in response. John squares his shoulder and tips his chin in triumph.

Sherlock watches the exchange with interest. John definitely looks the part of the soldier whenever he gets protective. Sherlock clears his throat, "Well, come now, John. We have a few people to speak with. Lestrade," Sherlock says, turning to face the DI, "I will text you when we've caught him."

Lestrade looks wary, "Sherlock, I can't just let you two go after this guy alone; remember, he has killed three people now. Here, at least allow one of our cop cars to trail you—"

"Are you serious? Lestrade, if there is a police car two hundred yards behind us all evening no one is going to willingly approach us, much less the killer. Absolutely not. John and I must do this alone so as not to arouse suspicion. We will—" Sherlock is cut off by the sound of his mobile buzzing in his pocket.

Annoyed, he checks the text he just received.

**_Sent at: 4:35pm_**

_Tell Gregory he needn't worry, I'll be watching the two of you over the CCTV system. MH_

**_Sent at: 4:37pm_**

_Since when are you and Lestrade on a first name basis? And whatever, do as you wish. SH_

**_Sent at: 4:38pm_**

_None of your business, brother dear. And I certainly plan to. MH_

Sherlock glances back up at Lestrade and wordlessly shows him the screen. Masterfully hiding any sort of discomfort, Lestrade glosses right over the 'Gregory' bit and says, "Excellent, if your brother is keeping an eye out then feel free to go."

Just to be difficult, Sherlock snaps, "Perhaps _you _value Mycroft's consent, but I would've gone regardless of my brother's permission, _Gregory."_

Then, he grabs John and strides from the building, leaving a rather flustered Lestrade in his wake.

* * *

The pair of them walk in comfortable silence, John taking in the scenery and absently running his fingers over the gun in his left pocket, while Sherlock hums a ballad and contemplates how much he ought to bribe the next homeless informant.

All in all, it is a fairly typical stroll.

Sherlock stops when they reach the corner where a pale-haired woman is raptly working on a crossword puzzle against the newspaper stand. She stops leaning and straightens her posture when she sees Sherlock approaching. When they are within a few feet of each other, he digs into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes and two tenners, and her eyes immediately lose their clouded appearance.

"We're looking for Seth Banks," Sherlock says casually, purposefully not speaking in her direction. From a distance they look like two strangers that just happen to be standing within close proximity.

"Ain't heard of 'im," she replies, not bothering to look up from the puzzle she is studiously filling in.

"Mm, no of course not. Thank you," Sherlock gives her a long, firm handshake, slips the money and cigarettes into her waiting palms, and then strides away from her, John confusedly following behind.

"Sherlock, what…?"

"Sometimes, John, it is safer to use written rather than spoken word." He holds up the wrinkled crossword paper where she has messily scribbled an address. "He can be found right here. I suspect this will not take long, now."

John raises his eyebrows, impressed. Sherlock smirks. "What have I said? The homeless are endlessly efficient."

* * *

He is such an idiot, such a damned _fool._

Out of all the idiotic, foolish things he has done today, this has to take the cake.

He and John had found Seth exactly where his informant predicted. Then, as Sherlock expected, the man immediately sprinted away the moment he laid eyes on them. They had looked at each other once, exchanged a weird sort of grin, and then dashed off after him like marathon runners.

Everything had been going perfectly: the adrenaline rush, the spike in his blood pressure, the hardy pound of his heart against his ribs. Then everything went to shite the minute John shouted "No, _this _way," and tugged Sherlock in said direction by the hand. _By the hand._ John Watson was holding his bare hand—he'd forgotten his gloves at the flat—and his mind completely flew off its neat, organized axis.

Still holding hands, they cornered him in an alley. Sherlock should have noticed the knife concealed in the lining of the bloke's jacket, he should have seen the mad glint of desperation in his eyes as he and John backed him into the alley's corner. He is Sherlock _bloody _Holmes for Christ's sake, _he should have noticed_.

But he didn't, because he was stupidly, ridiculously, hopelessly lost in the sensation of John holding his hand and pulling him along, his typically sharp senses numbed by the chaste contact. _Stupid. _

In his wit's absence, the criminal managed to plunge a short Swiss army knife into his abdomen. It didn't go all that deep—thanks to both his thick coat and the man's awkward stabbing angle—but it was still enough to make him immediately crumple to the floor in pain. John looked at him once, quickly assessed that it wasn't fatal, and then sprinted after the perpetrator with a surprising amount of speed. He tackled him to the ground within seconds. After he phoned the local police and knocked the man unconscious with the butt of his less-than-legal gun—so the man couldn't escape, of course. _Not_ just because it made John feel tough—he immediately darted to Sherlock's side like a fretting hen.

Which brings Sherlock to the present, in which he is laying on the sidewalk, knife wedged into a non-fatal area of his torso, bleeding through one of his nice shirts like the reckless sod Mycroft and half of London often accuse him of being.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, stay with me here, don't worry, it's going to be fine, he didn't strike you anywhere vital," John murmurs, stroking Sherlock's hair back to simultaneously comfort him and check for any injuries. Despite the jarring pain that is shooting through every nerve, Sherlock feels calm the moment John sets his warm, rough palm on his forehead. He feels safe, content. Unconsciously, he pushes his head into the touch.

"Hey, Sherlock, stay with me here, okay? I know I said it isn't fatal and the injury isn't even remotely near your head, but I don't fancy the idea of you passing out, so please try to stay conscious. Tell me about something interesting, make some deductions," he asks, his calm tone clearly masking panic. Sherlock knows he isn't going to die and John knows too, he is a doctor after all, but for some reason he is panicking. At most Sherlock will need stitches and an uncomfortable few hours of recovery in hospital, but nothing more, and certainly not _death, w_hich John seems to think is a possibility.

"John, I'm quite alright, it's hardly something to panic over," he says, steadily. Well, as steadily as he can manage, anyway. To his credit he _is _lying on the ground with a seeping knife wound, so the mere fact that is still able to grit out a reasonable sentence at all is quite impressive.

"I know that, Sherlock, but until the paramedics arrive I'd really like you to remain conscious. Deductions. Now,"

Sherlock's gaze roves unhurriedly over John's features: dark-blue eyes peering at him from beneath an awning of blonde lashes, pink mouth pursed in concern, the white bone of his teeth worrying his bottom lip in a rather tortuous fashion. In the privacy of his mind Sherlock chuckles drily at the fact that even though he is lying on the sidewalk with a gaping knife-wound gushing at his side, he is still thinking of John's mouth and eyes. (To be fair, they are a rather delicious pair of features)

"Okay, that red-haired bloke obviously dislikes his girlfriend's mum – he's tugging at the

collar of an oversized, expensive-looking jumper that was purchased by her as a birthday gift, clearly showing his dislike for her through his irritation with the clothing – and is considering breaking up with his girlfriend because of it," he wets his lips and sweeps the area once more before landing on another target, "And that woman – _there_ – with the crying baby, you can tell she just found out that her husband's been cheating on her by the way she is worrying her ring and glancing at the howling child with regret as if to question what she has gotten herself into,

"And that man over there—" he hisses in pain, "That—he—impending affair with—wife's friend—" Sherlock shuts his eyes very tightly and focuses on breathing in and out through his nose without moving so as not to aggravate his wound. Above him, John is panicking again and running his clinical, searching hands all over Sherlock's face, his chest, his wrists, ghosting over the wound and his heart, all the while muttering nonsensical placations.

"_You're fine, you're okay, this is just a delayed reaction you're experiencing, you're alright, look, see, the blood's already clotting, just hold on, deep slow breaths, yes just like that, keep your eyes shut, in out in out, yes, don't worry,"_

As they load him up onto the gurney, John grips his hand, says "I will meet you at hospital, okay? You're alright, you're going to be fine," and then presses the world's shortest kiss to his forehead.

Sherlock has the time to think '_that felt rather good'_ before the sedatives kick in and oblivion claims him.

* * *

When consciousness returns, Sherlock is struck by two rather interesting realizations. One: anesthetics are much stronger than he thought, and two: there is a very warm, pleasant-smelling body half-splayed across his.

Gingerly, he lifts his left arm – which had been limply hanging off the side of his bed – and touches the top of the person's head. In disbelief, he realizes that _John_ is sleeping on his chest.

John's chair is pulled up close to the side of Sherlock's bed and John is spilling forward from it, half of his body laying over Sherlock's. His head is right beneath Sherlock's chin. The slightly sweet, clean smell of John's shampoo tickles his nose and Sherlock doesn't hesitate to inhale deeply. As the feeling in his right hand returns, he realizes that John is not only touching his hand, but has intertwined their fingers and maintained a tight grip as well.

Needless to say, the stitches in his abdomen are easily forgotten.

Sherlock lays there motionless for a few minutes, reluctant to move in fear of waking John, soaking in the delicious, warm feeling that trickles from his wildly-beating heart to his curled toes. Just as he's contemplating running his fingers through John's hair, the door opens and a nurse walks in. She seems startled to find him awake.

"S. Holmes, correct?" She asks, unsurely.

Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock nods tersely and puts his left index finger to his lips to indicate that she ought to keep her voice down, _otherwise she'll bloody wake John and that is just not okay right now. _

"It's just…well, sir, judging by the amount of anesthetics you've received," she pauses to check a sheet of paper on her clipboard, "you aren't expected to be awake for another two hours,"

_Yes, well those estimates don't apply to a former cocaine addict. My body is quite conditioned to drugs._

Dismissively, Sherlock replies, "Well I'm plainly awake right now, so it appears your calculations are wrong,"

She narrows her eyes at him. "I assure you, sir, they are not—"

"Mm, yes, you're_ right_," he snaps, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I _am _sound asleep. Do wake me in the determined two hours, will you, nurse?"

He looks away from her and returns his attention to John. A familiar rush of adrenaline and warmth floods through his veins just by merely glancing at John's sleeping form. A strange jolt of possessiveness comes along as well, and he finds himself placing a splayed palm on John's back. He digs the pads of his fingertips into the material of John's sweater, holding him as closely as possible.

The nurse, who previously looked like she was contemplating ripping the raw stiches from Sherlock's side, softens at the sight. "Is he your boyfriend or husband?" She asks, her mouth curved into a begrudging smile.

Sherlock considers. "We prefer no labels,"

"Ah, yes, I understand. My partner and I were like that for a while, before we got married. Of course,_ now_ I have no choice but to call her my wife," she chuckles to herself and grins. "You two make a very beautiful couple, Mr. Holmes. You should know that as soon as he was allowed in he did not move from that chair_ once_,"

Sherlock's face heats and he can't resist the pleased smile that spreads on his lips. "Yes, well." He mutters vaguely, attempting to appear blasé despite the ridiculous bubble of happiness rising in his chest.

"I suppose I'll go and inform the doctor that you've woken. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes." She gives him one last smile before leaving the room.

Sherlock sighs in contentment. He'll get stiches in his abdomen every weekend if it means waking up to John sleeping on him like this.

He's just started running his fingers through the soft, grey-blonde hairs at the base of John's skull when he feels John's mobile vibrate in his pocket. John immediately jerks awake and blearily pats his pockets for his mobile. In his search for his phone, he gains complete awareness and realizes just how he was positioned moments ago.

"Er, sorry about practically collapsing on you like that," John says, sheepishly. "I was bloody exhausted and overestimated my ability to sleep upright all night."

Sherlock doesn't get the chance to say John can sleep like that whenever he likes, because John finally locates his ringing phone and brings it to his ear. "Laura!" exclaims John, "Hey, yeah, I'm good, how are you?" John stands up and mouths '_I'll be out there'_ and then takes his phone call into the hallway.

The scowl that overtakes Sherlock's features is so fierce that it actually hurts his face muscles. He lets his head fall against the backboard with a resounding smack, which he immediately regrets because there are at least two tender stiches crawling up the side of his skull from when he fell to the floor, post stabbing.

He groans and rubs the back of his head.

**_Sent at: 8:10am_**

_Getting involved in matters of emotion is not wise, brother mine. MH_

**_Sent at: 8:15am_**

_Yes, well neither is consuming an entire bakery's worth of cake on a daily basis, Mycroft, but you do so anyway. I suppose neither of us are exactly wise. SH_

**_Sent at: 8:20am_**

_Childish retorts do not take away the truth of what I've said, Sherlock. MH_

Sherlock glares at the screen of his phone and scowls even more fiercely than before. Stupid sodding Mycroft and his annoying, bothersome texts. Sherlock will not admit that Mycroft is right. Sherlock refuses.

Sherlock also refuses to acknowledge that perhaps the reason he is so irritated with Mycroft's text is because he does not want to confront the actual dilemma of his one-sided love for John, since facing such a thought is rather disheartening. Thinking about the way he feels for John, and then thinking about bloody Laura and every other unworthy woman in John's life makes Sherlock feel simultaneously furious and heart broken.

It isn't fair. People should fall in love at the same pace, with the same people.

**_Sent at: 8:22am _**

_Bugger off. SH_

* * *

**A/N: So, what did you think? Just so you guys know, comments and reviews are GREAT motivation to update quicker, just saying. *nudge nudge* *wink wink* Regardless, thank you so much for reading!**

**Chapter four should be up sooner than this one (hopefully!)**

**Thanks again! Until next time, darlings X0X0**

**(but seriously, cannot stress this enough: FEEDBACK IS TO ME WHAT JOHN IS TO SHERLOCK. There. That should do it) **


	4. Of Near Disasters and Birthday Cake

**Hello, loves!**

**I know, I know: _majorly_ quick update. Since I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write next week I wanted to put this up just in case.**

_***Important message in end notes regarding the future of this story! Read it, please and thank you!***_

**Enjoy!**

* * *

In all of his adult life, Sherlock has never bothered to remember anyone's birthdays. If by chance he accidentally overhears a date (_Oh, I can't believe I'll be turning thirty-six on March twelfth!)_, he immediately deletes it and goes on with his day. Mycroft, Lestrade, and even Mrs. Hudson are not exempt from this. Never would he so much as _humor_ the thought of throwing any of them some kind of celebration. Because, after all, why does a birthday require celebration? One does nothing worthy of acknowledgment by simply being born; that's like rewarding someone for _breathing_. Both are equally effortless and undeserving of an entire day's dedication.

However, as usual, John is the exception. John is the kind of wonderful, brilliant man that deserves to be celebrated each and every day for his vast reserves of patience, kindness, capacity for caring, sharp wit, and cleverness. However, since daily festivities in John's honor are a bit excessive, he at least deserves a celebration on the day he was born, because that is the day the universe gained something achingly _significant _and infinitely_ unique. _

Perhaps a few months ago Sherlock wouldn't have seriously considered the thought of doing something special for John's birthday, but due to the fairly new realization that he indeed_ loves_ John, Sherlock has decided to begin taking some steps towards making such a thing known. Of course, that isn't to say he plans on writing amorous proclamations across the surface of a cake in strawberry cream, but he certainly hopes that this act of thoughtfulness will soften John for whenever he decides to confess his affections in the future.

Besides, Sherlock isn't _that _naïve; he knows theoretically how relationships ought to work-small, meaningless celebrations and all-so he's aware that making a fuss over one's partner's birthday is greatly appreciated. (And usually rewarded)

With that decided, the only question that remains is: what does one do to properly celebrate a birthday?

He doesn't bother searching his mind palace, already aware that such a quest will be in vain. Instead he turns to the only other resource aside from his own mind that boasts the ability to provide endless answers.

The internet.

And yes, it _does_ feel a bit ridiculous to stoop over John's laptop – which is easy enough to hack; the password is predictably "Afghanistan", occasionally changed to "Bugger Off" whenever John suspects that Sherlock has been snooping – scrolling through page after page of birthday party ideas.

Sherlock is sitting on the couch, but John's chair looks more comfortable, so he leaps up, strides over, and proceeds to drape himself across it in a dramatic manner that he reserves only for when he is alone. His head lolls over the chair's right arm, his legs splayed recklessly over the left, and the warm laptop rests on his stomach. He cranes his neck and stares at the screen, his long fingers furiously typing into the search bar.

_"__How to celebrate one's flat mate's birthday in a manner that is genuine and simultaneously enjoyable, while also subtly hinting at love/fondness for said flat mate"_

Unsurprisingly, that search does not yield a single result. With an annoyed huff of breath, he reenters something so vague and simple that it makes him wrinkle his nose in disgust: "_Fun birthday ideas". _Several colorful pages pop up, many of them decorated with clowns, cakes, and other forms of nauseatingly-cheery birthday paraphernalia. One site, aptly named '_party planning for dummies'_, includes a graphic depicting what to do and what not to do at a celebration. Sherlock skims it briefly, disgusted with the simple language, poor grammar, and obnoxious font (is that _comic sans_?).

He rolls his eyes and exits out once he glances over the latter part of tip number four, which assures that even if someone claims not to, they really _do _want their face shoved good-naturedly into a cake. The next site he clicks on is titled rather eye-catchingly: "_Birthday Fun for You and Your Man"_

The phrasing is somewhat off-putting, but it's the first result he's seen that suggest something more than a child's birthday party or a friendly get-together. That isn't to say Sherlock doesn't want this to be a friendly occasion, he's simply searching for a bit more than that. With a hopeful breath he clicks on the link and opens the page.

"Oh my," Sherlock mutters, more than a bit thrown off by the image of a scantily-clad woman that immediately pops up at the top of the page. In hot-pink bubble letters reads:

_"__Step #1: Buy a sexy outfit he won't be able to resist. Don't worry about how it looks too much though, you're bound to be in your birthday suit by the end of the night anyway!"_

He blinks.

Curiosity prompts him to scroll down to the bottom of the page, partially in hope that a later tip will cover something less female-specific. (For example: he doesn't have breasts at his disposal, rendering tips three through eight useless)

Unfortunately, the last bubblegum-pink column does not discuss gender nonspecific romantic gestures, nor does it expand upon how one properly celebrates a loved one. Instead it focuses on a rather explicit 'favor' one can perform for their partner, along with a very detailed graphic and even a few reviews from readers. As he exits out, cheeks uncomfortably warm, he decides that at the very least the site deserves credit for being extremely _thorough. _

Weary and more than a bit discouraged, he clicks on another random link, not even bothering to glance at the title.

It is right as the page is loading that Sherlock hears three sharp knocks on his door, each separated by precisely two seconds. It takes even less time for Sherlock to deduce that it is either Mycroft or mummy on the other side of the door, given that both of them have a manner of knocking that suggest money, power, and a sensitivity of the hands. (Which, in unabashed honesty, is to say that Mycroft has the fragile physicality of an old woman: a fact that Sherlock will always find deeply amusing).

Sherlock takes his time heading to the door, making sure his footfalls are loud enough for Mycroft to hear, just so he knows that the delay is completely intentional. Once he swings open the door, he immediately snaps, _"What?"_

Mycroft stares back, face pinched into his customary 'pleased to see you in a perfunctory sort of way' smile, umbrella propped faithfully at his side. He glances at Sherlock's attire, distaste written clearly across his face. "Really, brother? It's nearly two in the afternoon and you couldn't bother with a decent shirt and a proper pair of trousers?"

Sherlock doesn't care that he is currently donning one of John's old cotton t-shirts (which he swiped weeks ago and John still hasn't noticed) and a dress robe. He doesn't care that his hair is a complete wreck of tangled curls and wild, black waves that would rival the chaos of any bird's nest. If anything, this subtle defiance against Mycroft's notions of "proper attire" makes staying in sweatpants all day worth it.

"No, brother, I couldn't," Sherlock replies, succinctly. "Now I'm sure you didn't come all the way here just to reprimand my wardrobe choices, so why not get on with it?"

"A proper host invites his guest in before demanding answers," informs Mycroft, primly.

Sherlock smiles sardonically. "And since when have I been 'proper' to any degree, brother?"

Mycroft sighs, world-weary as ever, and invites himself in as Sherlock loses interest and turns to walk back inside.

Sherlock immediately strolls into the kitchen and returns with the previously untouched plate of chocolate biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought up this morning. Sherlock sets the plate on the coffee table and takes a generous amount simply for the sake of taunting Mycroft. He picks through the armful of treats, pops one into his mouth, and then questions, "And how's the diet, brother?"

Mycroft regards him with saccharine disdain. "Ah, yes, quite splendid, Sherlock, thank you ever so much for asking."

"Your jacket's buttons beg to differ," he remarks, licking the powdered sugar from his right thumb.

"My tailor is on a vacation and his replacement is rather incompetent."

"Mm, yes I'm sure" Sherlock replies airily, biting into another biscuit with feigned relish. "These are quite delicious."

Mycroft only glares.

Sherlock looks unconcerned and saunters over to John's chair, this time seated in a normal fashion, where he reopens the laptop and continues his research. Sherlock doesn't care if it's rude to carry on as if he's alone; Mycroft obviously came here to tell him something and Sherlock will not bother with Smalltalk just to get him to reveal his purpose.

Minutes tick by in silence. Mycroft wanders about the sitting room, umbrella swinging absently at his side, eyes roving unhurriedly throughout the flat. Sherlock can practically see the deductions forming behind that cool expression of his, but he quickly decides that he doesn't care and glances away.

Out of nowhere, Mycroft begins to chuckle heartily into the silence. Sherlock rips his gaze away from the laptop to stare at his brother in shock, because he has only heard Mycroft laugh genuinely like this about five times in his life, and most of those instances are so old that if it weren't for his superb memory, he'd hardly be able to recall them.

"Something amusing?" he asks warily, because it is quite possible his brother has lost his mind.

Mycroft shakes his head, a dumbfounded smile lingering on his lips. A few chuckles stumble out as he attempts half-heartedly to recompose himself. "Oh, Sherlock," he says with a sigh, now gazing about the flat in wonder. "Sherlock I never thought this would happen to you, but it has. Good god, it has."

"What? What are you talking about? What has happened to me?" He demands.

Mycroft glances at him out the corner of his eye and smirks. Purposely not answering, he leans down and plucks a single biscuit from the platter.

"Oh, but your diet," Sherlock reminds, in mock concern.

"Yes, well," he says, lightly, seating himself on the sofa with an air of luxuriousness. "You seem to be indulging yourself around here so I thought I might do so as well," he bites into a corner of the biscuit, eyebrow raised.

"And what is that," Sherlock bites out, "supposed to mean?" Because Mycroft is clearly not talking about the biscuits.

"Oh, nothing much, brother," Mycroft assures around a dainty mouthful, "It's just, well, you've begun wearing his t-shirts now, you're currently seated in his chair, and you're also browsing through his laptop. Frankly, it would not surprise me to find a shrine dedicated to him in your room somewhere. Perhaps a covert notebook in which you catalogue his every facial expression? Or an album of him in various candid scenarios?" Mycroft smirks. "Really, brother, it could not be more obvious if you wrote it across your forehead."

"Shut-" but before the phrase is even out of his mouth, Mycroft says: "You're in love with John," like an indisputable fact.

And it sounds so simple, so confidently phrased, and so _true_, that he can't bring himself to deny it. And what's the point, anyway? Mycroft has clearly already figured it out.

"Yes," Sherlock admits, shortly.

Mycroft looks satisfied. "Well, brother mine, this happens to be the exact topic that I wished to discuss with you today, so I suppose this is an excellent segue," Mycroft announces, as he continues nibbling at the edges of the biscuit. "I was wondering what you plan on doing about your – _condition."_

Sherlock scoffs and shakes his head. "Really, Mycroft? Condition? You make it sound as though I'm ill."

"In a way you are, Sherlock," Mycroft muses. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed the way love tends to turn even the sharpest of minds to rubbish? That isn't to say the same will become of you, of course, but you must proceed with caution nonetheless."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and snaps the laptop shut so he can glare at Mycroft easier. "You think because of my feelings for John I will become _simple?"_

"Mm, perhaps not _simple_ per se, but definitely less logical. Oh, and most certainly not as level-headed as you consider yourself currently."

"Mycroft, _stop_. Do you really believe I can't keep my own mind intact just because I care for someone?" Sherlock scowls indignantly, "Because I_ can_, brother, and I most certainly _will_."

Mycroft stares at him for a long moment, clearly fighting the urge to retort. After a moment, his frustrated expression dissipates with practiced ease and his untroubled, bland smile returns. "Do you plan on sharing any of this with John?"

It's a reasonable question, so Sherlock forces himself to bite back the urge to automatically glare in response. In truth, he hasn't pondered the question too deeply himself, because it always brings an unpleasant sinking feeling to his chest. He takes a deep breath and pointedly glances away. "I'm undecided."

Mycroft, adept as always, catches the unspoken 'what should I do?' and doesn't hesitate to respond, "I've never been one to sugar-coat things for you, Sherlock, and I will not do so now. John has been announcing his sexuality to the world as long as I've known him, and whenever he hasn't said it with his words, he's shown it through the constant stream of women coming to and from this flat. However, my deductions lead me to believe that perhaps his constant reaffirmations are due to a sense of self-uncertainty, which indeed gives his claims of "not gay" a bit more leeway," Mycroft pauses to gauge Sherlock's reaction so far, finding that it is predictably blank. He takes in a breath and continues, "Unfortunately, sometimes it is that lingering sense of doubt that causes people – but statistically more often, men – to force possible feelings down even further in denial. Which means that John is just as likely to embrace the idea as he is to completely shy away from it."

There is a long beat of silence that follows Mycroft's last statement. Mycroft stares at Sherlock who is deliberately looking out the window, features assembled into an impression of disinterest. Mycroft, ever-observant, notices the telltale twitch of his fingers, which betrays that Sherlock's true feelings.

"Sherlock."

"_I know,_ Mycroft," Sherlock snaps, eyes still fixed unseeingly at the window. "I know I don't have a chance in hell, there's no need to reiterate."

"That is _not_ what I said." Mycroft purses his lips and takes a moment to consider his next words. "Sherlock, I only mean to prepare you for the worst situation. And if I am to be completely honest, John _does_ care about you. Immensely, in fact. I won't pretend to be an expert in the world of emotion, but I can say with utmost certainty that you are just as important to John as he is to you,"

Sherlock blinks once, twice, and finally breaks away from the window to meet his brother's gaze. "Yes?" He asks, uncertainty and hope spilling reluctantly into his voice.

"Yes," Mycroft replies, confidently.

Sherlock nods, though more to himself than his brother, and returns his gaze to the window with a new air of satisfaction. Mycroft, sensing his point has been made, rises from the couch and gathers his umbrella.

Sherlock doesn't walk him to the door or anything as polite, but instead thanks him in an abstract, Sherlockian way that few are granted and even less appreciate. "Your visit was…not wasted, Mycroft. And perhaps you_ have_ lost a bit of weight."

Mycroft doesn't say 'you're welcome' because that would mean acknowledging that it was a 'thank you' in the first place, which Sherlock will most definitely not appreciate, so Mycroft only inclines his head slightly. He turns to leave, umbrella swinging absently at his side.

"Sherlock," says Mycroft over his shoulder, almost like an afterthought. "Do be careful, yes? Keep your reason intact."

Sherlock smiles crookedly at that. "I would, brother, but it appears that this_ loving_ lark is quite resistant to logic," he lifts his gaze and something genuine sparkles in his eyes, something subtle but achingly bright, and Mycroft has never seen anything like it before in Sherlock. If he didn't know better, he'd call it _happiness._

"Caring may not be an advantage, Mycroft, but I am discovering that it is_ certainly_ no burden."

. . .

Exactly twenty-four hours after Mycroft's visit, Sherlock finally has the sense to ask Mrs. Hudson for advice. She wastes no time in telling him that a simple cake and birthday dinner will be perfectly sufficient. Apparently such a celebration is both romantic and comfortable, which she assures him is something John would appreciate.

Plans solidified, the only task that remains is getting John out of the flat long enough for Sherlock to cook up a birthday cake. Mrs. Hudson has kindly taken it upon herself to handle the preparation of dinner and the (tasteful and few!) decorations.

* * *

Sherlock wakens the day of John's birthday with a clear strategy and the kind of single-minded determination that usually only accompanies a particularly fascinating case. He tosses the sheets away, leaps out of bed, and dashes from his room like an eager child bounding towards presents on Christmas day. He has exactly fourteen seamless reasons for John to leave the flat for the several hours that he requires, and he is positively_ bursting _to use one.

"John," he calls, as he sweeps into the kitchen. Sherlock is just about to begin his onslaught of rapidly-spoken brilliance, when his eyes land on a rather peculiar sight: John is not in the kitchen as he usually is, groggily making tea in his robe and slippers with sleep-mussed hair. Instead he is standing before the mirror in the sitting room, adjusting the collar of his sports jacket and muttering several different versions of _"Hello, Laura"_ under his breath.

It does not take a consulting detective to deduce what all of this means. Unconsciously, Sherlock's shoulder slump and the eagerness seeps from his eyes. He knows he should be pleased: obviously no cunning will be necessary because John is going to leave the flat of his own accord. However, he's going to be with _a woman _and _his mates_ in a place that is_ not _the flat and with people that are _not_ Sherlock_. _And_ that_ is a bit not good.

_Stupid, blasted, bloody Laura. _

"Morning," says John, absently. He fiddles with his tie until he deems it sufficiently straight. "I made you some toast and a cup of tea about thirty minutes ago for breakfast; they're sitting in the microwave."

"Well then I certainly cannot eat any of it, that's where I was storing a very toxic petri dish of—"

John glances away from his reflection to give Sherlock a knowing look. "Of Alternaria-riddled tomato slime? Yes, I know. You told me about all of your mold cultures last Tuesday. Naturally, I moved it to the oven and disinfected the microwave before putting your breakfast in there."

"Oh. Yes, well, that's…acceptable," he mumbles, at loss.

But it's actually far more than just 'acceptable'—it's bloody wonderful. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and fights the urge to grab John and pull him into an embrace, because John _remembered_ that the moldy tomato goo wasn't just moldy tomato goo and he was_ careful_ about putting it somewhere wise, which is infinitely more than he can usually ask of an ordinary person (though to be fair, John is anything but ordinary).

"I'm sure you've gathered as much, but I'll be going out today. Mike and the lads are taking me to a football game and then a bit of pub-hopping later on," John brushes back a stray gray-blonde hair. "Anyway, Laura may be coming as well, so it's important that I look my best. What do you think?" John turns and faces Sherlock with an expectant brow.

John, for once, is not wearing one of his awful jumpers, which Sherlock finds disappointing. Of course, that is not to say the sports jacket and dark slacks he is currently wearing are not flattering; quite the contrary. He looks bloody gorgeous as usual, with those sparkling blue eyes that have turned dark-navy from the reflection of his jacket, that smartly-styled, gray-blonde hair, and those pleasantly shaped lips that are currently curved into a half-smile. Not to mention how incredibly appealing it is to see John's small, strong frame wrapped up in formal attire, which is such a rarity that the sight in and of itself is a treat. Sherlock is struck with the urge to place his hands on either side of John's face and pull him close into a kiss, so John can feel each word as Sherlock whispers, _"You look exquisite," _against the delicious swell of his bottom lip.

"Do I have something on my face?" John asks, self-consciously.

Sherlock blinks and realizes that he's been staring at John with a blank expression for an entire minute. "You look fine. Good…great—passable, I mean," he manages.

John looks amused and a bit confused, but seems content to let it go. He readjusts the collar of his jacket one final time. "They invited you as well, but I said you had some familial obligations to attend to, so don't worry," he smiles, "I had a feeling you wouldn't fancy a football game or pub setting. We'll do something when I get home tonight; who knows, maybe you'll finally be up for those Bond movies I'm always telling you about."

The idea that John knows him so well makes his heart positively sing. Sherlock much prefers when it's just the two of them rather than some busy, loud crowd of strangers and acquaintances, and he is immeasurably grateful that John is aware of it.

Then, Sherlock realizes something.

"John, I've noticed you've purposefully omitted the reason for all of this celebration. Why?" Sherlock doesn't really need an answer, he knows it's because John thinks he forgot and doesn't want him to feel bad, but part of him is still curious.

John blinks and looks somewhat sheepish. "Well, I didn't know if you realized it's my birthday, and I didn't want it to seem like I was throwing all of this in your face to make you feel guilty for not doing something," he sighs and steps forward, "I just want you to know that I don't care about parties, okay? I'm really only going to this bloody thing to humor my mates. I'll consider whatever simple, comfortable thing we end up doing later the perfect way to spend my birthday, alright?" He grips the sides of Sherlock's arms in emphasis.

Sherlock nods and keeps a cool expression, all the while trying not to focus on the sensation of John's warm, strong fingertips pressing into his bicep.

Sherlock's knee-jerk reaction to John's kind understanding is to attempt to please him even more by admitting that he _did _remember and has indeed planned something. But just as the words are about to leave his lips, he remembers a particular tip Mrs. Hudson gave him: he must pretend that he has nothing planned, so that when the cake and dinner are finally revealed, John will enjoy them even more out of surprise. With this in mind, he says: "You are correct, I haven't prepared anything. Either way, happy birthday, John,"

John grins and brushes an affectionate hand through the curls hanging against Sherlock's forehead in a gesture that _could_ be interpreted as a friendly hair-ruffle, if it wasn't for the fact that John's hand then drops a few inches lower along his cheekbone in-what certainly _feels_ like-a caress. The touch lasts mere seconds before John's hand finds its way back to his side. "You're fantastic, you know?" John beams at him once more before brushing by and heading for the door.

"I'll phone you when I'm on my way back, yeah?"

The door closes and Sherlock numbly raises his hand to his flushed face, fingertips fluttering absently over his now-sacred cheekbone.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you sure you don't want my help with the cake?" Mrs. Hudson asks, as she hands over the rest of the ingredients. They are standing in the threshold of her flat, Sherlock's arms overflowing with baked goods, while Mrs. Hudson eyes him concernedly.

"Yes, I'm quite sure, Mrs. Hudson. You're already preparing the dinner, I couldn't ask for more than that. Also, I'd like to do this bit myself. I'm not entirely sure why I am so insistent on that, but I suppose I shall chalk it up to sentiment."

She smiles in understanding, and places a stick of butter on the growing mound of food in Sherlock's arms, "Yes, dear, it is sentiment. Though I will admit that you are correct in your insistence: the best cakes are often made with a few drops of love."

He frowns and glances down at the items worriedly, "A few drops of 'love'? Is that the name of some type of extract or oil, because if so you appear to have forgotten it—"

A look of amused endearment passes over Mrs. Hudson's face and she shakes her head, "Oh, Sherlock, I don't mean it literally. I only meant that the best birthday cakes – or any cakes in general, really – are the ones made with love in mind. Your John is going to be so pleased to see it once it's done," she beams at him once more, before stepping back inside her flat. "Ring me if you find that you need any help, dear!"

"Yes, I will. Thank you again for the recipe, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls from over his shoulder as he walks away.

When he returns to his flat he quickly recognizes that there is a slight problem. Well, actually there a _few_ slight problems, namely the lack of clean cooking space and the significant amount of unhygienic items currently boiling/melting/sitting on the stove and inside the oven.

Sherlock drops the ingredients unceremoniously to the floor, which is ironically the only sanitary area in the entire kitchen. He plucks his mobile from his pocket and briefly considers phoning Mycroft to send someone over to clean his disastrous kitchen, but quickly decides he'd rather not waste his last few shreds of dignity on something so frivolous.

Instead, he sets his features into something like grim acceptance, grabs the unused sponge from the cabinet, and begins the horrendously tedious task of _cleaning._ Of course, he isn't quite sure what 'cleaning' entails, so he sort of just sweeps everything that isn't poisonous, deadly, or 'something that was once within an animal' into the corner to be dealt with later. He wipes over the surface of the dining room table with the sponge, but a chunk of it immediately gets torn off in a mysterious sticky puddle. Annoyed, he stalks over to the sink, wets the sponge, and returns to the table with renewed determination. He _will_ get this bloody table clean. However, after about ten minutes of fruitless scrubbing, he realizes that even if he soaked the entire thing in ammonia, toxic residue would still dapple its surface. In other words: it's a lost cause. Sherlock turns it on its side and pushes it against the wall.

The oven and microwave are a bit easier, because he can use common household products to disinfect them rather than the heavy-duty acids the table requires. As he swipes a soapy dishrag along the exterior of the microwave, he hums the tune to "Happy Birthday" under his breath. Earlier today, he was forced to YouTube it, since he deleted the song from his mind palace ages ago. Now, memory renewed, he focuses on perfecting the pitches and tones of the song in preparation for tonight. He continues singing softly as he scrubs the dried plasma from the stovetop. All is well until his voice falters on the "to you" bit. He freezes and his eyes widen. He immediately drops the rag and dashes into the sitting room to phone Mrs. Hudson.

"Hel—"

"Mrs. Hudson I need you to tell me which pitch I am incorrectly singing on the first verse of the "Happy Birthday" song because I fear I am using F-minor when in reality the tune demands _C-_minor and—"

"Sherlock!" She cries, "Dear, why are you putting yourself in such a tizzy over this?"

"Because, Mrs. Hudson, this must go perfectly! Remember what I told you last week?" He demands, not caring in the slightest that he sounds desperate.

"Yes, dear," she says patiently, "You said you are in love with John and you want this little celebration to show him that. I understand how much you want this to be perfect, and _it will be_, whether or not you sing the correct pitches in his birthday song. John will adore anything you do, Sherlock. You're _fine."_

By the time she has finished talking, he feels decidedly calmer than before. He takes a deep breath. Yes, Mrs. Hudson does have a point, John will probably like the party regardless of his singing abilities. John is sentimental like that.

"Okay. Yes, you're right. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She chuckles warmly. "Alright now get back to cleaning that kitchen, young man! I've seen the state of it and you have some work to do."

Relieved, he sets the phone down and strides back into the kitchen.

As he is finishing up the last of the dirty dishes, it occurs to him that his earlier actions have just proved Mycroft's warning about 'love turning smart men simple' correct. Prior to 'being in love', he would have never so much as humored the idea of panicking over something as inconsequential as an incorrect pitch in a song. He certainly wouldn't have phoned his Landlady about it.

And yet, here he is.

He supposes love is just one of those annoying things that demands endless struggle and sacrifice and in return offers a very small bit of something wonderful. Putting the ridiculousness of it aside, he stands by what he told Mycroft: love is no burden.

And speaking of burdens, it is now time to remove the layer of coagulated blood from the crisper.

* * *

As Sherlock mixes in another cup of flour, he scoffs to himself at all those that have claimed baking is a challenge. Ha! It's just chemistry with food instead of deadly compounds, plus one doesn't even need to figure out how much of each ingredient to add since the instructions are already created by someone else! To make it any easier would be an insult to mankind's collective intelligence.

Sherlock recalls watching his mother cook as a child: she was the kind of person that shone brightest in the kitchen; it was where she truly came to life. She would hum a tune and spin on her heel and dance her way over to the cupboards, using salt shakers as maracas and the broom as her partner. She often attempted to share her love for food with Sherlock, but it was to no avail since his interests were in deductions, data, and chemical compounds, not whipped meringue and saffron-dusted Bouillabaisse. Mycroft on the other hand completely immersed himself in cooking—and eating, Sherlock notes—up until the age of fourteen, when their father died. Sherlock had just turned seven at the time. He remembers strangers in dark clothing milling through their house, mumbling words of condolence to his mother and casting looks of pity and him and Mycroft. Some of them even had the gall to pat his head and say things like, "Atticus is going away for a little while, Sherlock" as if he were a simple fool that didn't understand the concept and finality of death.

Sherlock's memories of Atticus are sparse and a bit blurred around the edges due to the short time that he had known him, but Sherlock knows without doubt that he cared for him greatly. Atticus had always been a very intelligent, quiet man that spoke only when he felt something truly needed to be said; which of course was not to say he did not have a large capacity to love, because he_ did_. He never said those three words to any of them, but he always showed it by tasting one of his wife's dishes and then beaming as if it were gold, or playing a lengthy chess game with Mycroft in the peaceful firelight of the drawing room, or sitting on Sherlock's bed and patiently listening to him explain each step of his experiment. That is why Sherlock adored his father so much: he didn't need to talk endlessly in order to_ say_ something.

Sherlock decided long ago that he'd like to achieve that silent grace someday. He hopes that he too can learn the art of saying _I love you _without bothering with actual words. In fact, that is what the desired effect of this cake is: to show John how he feels without verbally saying it. Sherlock supposes this is as good a start as any.

With the batter now thoroughly mixed and fluffy, he moves on to the icing. Mrs. Hudson warned him that making icing from scratch is very difficult—even for her—because it often comes out either too watery or too thick. She'd handed him a tin of a store bought brand and given him a meaningful look. "Here, this'll do just _fine_, Sherlock. No need to bother with making it from scratch."

Hm.

Sherlock looks at the tin for a few seconds and then immediately sweeps it off the counter. If she really did not want him making his own, she should not have made it sound like such a tantalizing challenge.

Besides, how difficult can it be to make some sodding icing?

. . .

_Very_ difficult, as it turns out.

It isn't until he is surrounded by several bowls filled with frostings of varying viscosities—half of which are gummed in his hair—that he admits to himself perhaps Mrs. Hudson had a point.

Just as she predicted, each batch of icing is either too runny or too clotted, and whenever Sherlock attempts to thicken them with flour or thin them with water, they just become terrible, lumpy messes. After a quick survey of each, Bowl Number Three most resembles edible material so he decides to put his remaining efforts into salvaging it.

At the moment it is a rather unpleasant bile-green color, from when he added food dye in hopes of making the sludge more visibly appealing. Annoyed, he lifts the small bottle of coloring and glares at the label; "Bright Spring-Green" his _arse._

He is just about to add another spoonful of salt to the mixture, when his mobile buzzes. His fingers are sticky and stained green, but it hardly matters since the rest of him is too, so he pats down the pockets of his expensive trousers heedless of the mess. Unfortunately, it turns out he has left his phone on top of the microwave, which means abandoning Bowl Number Three for a moment. Reluctantly, he hastily mixes in the salt and then dashes to his mobile which is still buzzing rather insistently, signifying that it is a call rather than text.

"Hello?" he asks, the screen sticking unpleasantly to his sugar-coated cheek.

"Sherlock!" John shouts. It is very loud in the background-voices, shouting, the occasional cheer and holler-so Sherlock suspects he is at a pub. "Listen, I'm heading home in a bit, do you need anything from the shops? I'm stopping there on—"

Panicked, Sherlock cuts him off, eyes wildly darting around disastrous kitchen scene. "John. Listen to me: _do not come home yet."_

"…Why not?" John asks, warily.

"Because I am…I am—I'm—uh—just…" Any words would be great right now, any words at all. "Experimenting!" He exclaims, relieved to have chosen something believable. "Yes, yes the flat is in a dreadful state,"—not a lie—"and you really shouldn't come back just yet. Go to more pubs, take your time at Tesco. Whatever. Just don't come home yet."

John groans. "_Sherlock_. What. Have. You. Done. To. My. Flat."

Sherlock decides against pointing out that technically it's_ their_ flat. He clears his throat and makes his voice sound as calm and collected as possible. "It will be utterly spotless when you return, John, I guarantee it. Let's see, it's five right now, so…yes, you can return at exactly half past eight."

"Three and half hours, Sherlock?" John asks, his voice taking on that shrill pitch it gets when he's becoming agitated. "What could you have possible done to—actually, I don't want to know." He lets out a long breath that Sherlock suspects is for the sake of lowering his towering blood pressure. "Fine—fine, I'll see you then."

"Yes. Bye, John!" Sherlock says, brightly. He hangs up and then lets his arm fall limply to his side. That was a bloody close one. It would have rather ruined the surprise if John came home and found globs of butter on the ceiling and green icing covering every horizontal surface.

When he returns to his place at the counter he finds that a terrible fate has befallen Bowl Number Three, if the swamp-colored chunks floating through it like glaciers are any indication. Apparently adding more salt was not the best plan. With a world weary sigh, he dumps the concoction into the disposal, knowing full well the sink will become clogged and useless within the week because of it. He must remember to comb the phonebook for a good plumber.

With as much dignity as the situation allows, he stoops down and plucks the store brand icing from the floor. He glares at it and mutters, "This'll do."

If it were not inanimate, Sherlock imagines that it would look quite smug.

* * *

"Candles?"

"Yes, dear."

"But not the single ones, right? You got the generic six pack, correct? Because John will feel old if we use thirty-eight candles on his cake."

"I bought the six-pack, dear."

"What if he doesn't like the cake?"

"He will."

"What if he is upset by the color of balloons—you know he _did _once frown at a woman wearing all yellow…perhaps that signifies his distaste for the color? God, I'm a fool, he's going to hate this because yellow is his least favorite color."

"It isn't and he won't, dear."

"What if he is allergic to something in the food?"

Mrs. Hudson gives him a patient smile and grips his hand. "Sherlock. First of all, I doubt he has an allergy you are unaware of. Secondly, there is no need to worry! The cake came out lovely, the kitchen is spotless, and dinner will be more than satisfactory. As for the balloons, I'm sure John will not mind that they're yellow; in fact, I believe we once discussed our fondness for the color when I asked him which shade my sister should paint her bathroom. Everything will go wonderfully, dear. Stop fretting."

Sherlock nods and relaxes fractionally. The two of them are currently sitting at the kitchen table—Mrs. Hudson had the good idea of layering a few decorative runners over it to cover the acid stains— surrounded by yellow balloons and blue streamers, with John's birthday dinner spread out before them like a feast. Mrs. Hudson certainly has outdone herself. Unfortunately, Mrs. Hudson has also insisted that it will not be a proper surprise party unless they wear cheap, cardboard cones—er, _party hats_—and wait in the dark for John's arrival.

Sherlock drums his fingers on the table. "Are you sure we need the lights off? This feels more like an ambush than a party."

"Of course! Shouting 'surprise' and flicking on the lights is nearly the best part!"

Sherlock begins shaking his leg impatiently. He pulls out his mobile and glances at the time. It's three minutes past eight-thirty. John should've walked through the door one hundred and eighty seconds ago.

**_Sent at: 8:33pm _**

_John, come home at once. Right now. Right this second. SH_

Then, so as not to arouse suspicion:

**_Sent at: 8:34pm_**

_Not that there's anything here for you, of course. Just a regular dull night at Baker Street. No rush. SH_

He places his phone face down on the table and demonstrates remarkable patience for the entirety of a minute.

**_Sent at: 8:35pm_**

_I take that back. Do rush. SH _

Sherlock is just about to insist they leave the flat and track down John themselves since this is taking far too long, when he hears the sound of the doorknob jiggling. Mrs. Hudson giggles and whispers "On the count of three. One…two…"

The door creaks open. "Three!"

Sherlock jumps from his seat so quickly his knees knock the underside of the table. He hastily recovers and scrambles to turn on the light. "Surprise! Happy—"

But the words die on his lips the instance he registers the sight before him. John and some woman are intertwined like vines, clearly just caught in the middle of a snog—red lips, flushed faces, guilty expressions—and apparently under the impression that they were going to have the flat to themselves.

The sound of his heartbeat pounds in his ears. He is dimly aware of Mrs. Hudson saying "Oh dear."

The woman disentangles herself and looks bewilderedly at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, then back at John. "Er—who are these people, John?"

"My…my flat mate and my landlady," he says slowly. He clears his throat and straightens his jacket. "Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock, this is Laura. My girlfriend."

A blinding surge of anger and dejection slam into Sherlock like a truck. Is it possible for emotions to translate into physical pain? Because if so, that might explain the sudden ache in his chest.

When no explanation is forthcoming, John looks to Sherlock, wordlessly asking for an answer. Sherlock pointedly looks down at the mishmash of runners on the table. John blinks uncomprehendingly at the scene before him, eyes finally settling on Sherlock's crooked party hat. Genuinely confused, he asks, "What is this?"

Mrs. Hudson clears her throat. "Sherlock planned a—"

"No." Sherlock interrupts. He looks back up at John with a mask of indifference firmly in place. Dully, he says, "It is nothing." He turns slowly on his heel and meets Mrs. Hudson's wide-eyed, sympathetic expression without as much as a blink. With great deliberation, he pulls the party hat from his head and sets it carefully on the table. He doesn't care, he isn't upset. He most certainly is not hurt. If his eyes look especially glossy, it's because of allergies, _alright?_

He mutters, "Good night," and begins to head in the direction of his room, when he feels John's hand close around his forearm.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, you don't just get to stalk off to your room. Please explain what all of this is, Sherlock."

Laura stands a few feet back, looking extremely uncomfortable. "John, maybe I should go…"

Sherlock looks at her over John's head and feels something inside him suddenly snap. "Yes! Perhaps you should! There's no doubt those designer heels you shoplifted yesterday are starting to grow a bit uncomfortable, better run back to your dodgy flat and take them off!"

She blinks twice then immediately flees from the flat. John calls her name and follows after her. Mrs. Hudson rises from her chair and places a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm going to let you two have it out, alright dear? Call me or knock on my door if you need anything."

Sherlock says nothing, he just keeps his eyes fixated on the floor, his body as stiff as a statue.

Mrs. Hudson sighs. "Don't worry dear, everything will be alright. To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long. When John comes back up, just remember that you're both human and misunderstandings come with the territory. Don't look so down, dear, things will work out." She kisses his cheek and then leaves the flat.

Sherlock does not move a single inch until John comes thundering back up the stairs five minutes later, muttering and cursing like a sailor.

He storms inside and stops when he is ten inches before Sherlock. "Sherlock, why the_ hell _did you just do that?"

Sherlock grits his teeth and says nothing.

"Hm? She did nothing and you completely snapped at her!"

John's anger sparks Sherlock's like a cinder in a field of hay. Something hot and fiery boils in Sherlock's stomach and his heart slams into his ribs even more painfully than before. "Why the _hell _did you bring her here, John? Why didn't you just come home at eight-thirty like I asked—by yourself? Now you've gone and ruined it!"

"Wha—what do you mean I've ruined it!? I wasn't even aware there was an "it" to be ruined—"

"That's rather the point of a surprise party, John!" Sherlock cries, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"You didn't say…you…" The anger saps from John's tone as he registers Sherlock's words. There is a very long pause in which John soundlessly opens and closes his mouth and Sherlock clenches his jaw. When John speaks again, he sounds more stunned than anything. "Sherlock, I thought you were just going to work on an experiment all night since you said that's what you'd been occupied with all day. I…I didn't think you had planned anything. I brought Laura because she's always complaining that we don't spend enough time together and I figured just having a night in watching telly or something would be nice."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest, more for the sake of hugging himself than looking defiant. "John, you said you were going to free up your night for the two of us. I even rented those ridiculous James Bond movies to watch later."

John raises his eyebrows and his features immediately soften. "Really?"

Sherlock purses his lips and stares at the ceiling, rocking on his heels. "Yes. Really."

John swallows and looks around the kitchen, finally noticing the balloons in the corner, the haphazard streamers hanging from the light above the kitchen table, the spread of food, and the cake decorated with six blue candles. "You did this," John says weakly. "You planned a whole surprise party for me and I just ruined it."

Sherlock just shrugs, eyes stubbornly fixated on floor.

But when John speaks again, he sounds so utterly distressed that Sherlock almost wants to be the one comforting John, rather than the other way around. "I am so, _so _sorry, Sherlock. I just…I had no idea. I wouldn't have brought Laura if I knew you were planning something. This is incredible, it's really bloody incredible. I don't know what else to say." John rubs the back of his neck and meets Sherlock's gaze, looking painfully apologetic. "I've made an arse of myself, haven't I?" He doesn't wait for a response. "Yes, yes I have, and I am very sorry. This was extremely thoughtful. _Thank you_."

Sherlock has already been persuaded out of his bad mood by the time John finishes talking, but his sprits soar even higher when John closes the distance between them with an embrace. It isn't quite like their hugs in the past—which have been few and far between—because instead of John gruffly patting his back and then releasing him, John squeezes their bodies flush together and nestles his face in Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock vaguely recalls a saying about gift horse's mouths and decides not to question this. Instead of hugging John around the shoulders, he boldly encircles John's waist and pulls him close. The smell of cinnamon tickles Sherlock's nose. It seems to go on for several blissful decades before John finally pulls away, grinning.

"So, you baked a cake, did you?" John asks, eyeing the spread of food with a smile. "Never pegged you as a cook, but judging by how delicious that looks, I suppose I was wrong."

Sherlock glows under the praise and modestly replies, "It came out fairly well, I admit."

John pulls out a chair and sits down. When Sherlock doesn't immediately join him, he rolls his eyes. "Come on you great git, I don't plan to tuck in while you just watch." He stops grinning as a thought occurs to him, "Actually, I'm going to pop over to Mrs. Hudson's first and apologize, then invite her over. This meal looks absolutely mouthwatering and she definitely deserves to take part in it. Be back in a mo'!"

After John leaves, Sherlock pulls out a chair and practically melts into it, his bones and blood thrumming like plucked violin strings. The memory of John wrapped in his arms is still so vivid that he can practically feel John's hair brushing the underside of his chin, the smell of cinnamon shrouding his senses like a pleasant fog. He decides against pondering John's relationship with Laura because such a complex subject requires far more deliberation and thought than he is currently willing to give. Besides, it _is_ rather telling that of the two of them, John flocked to Sherlock—despite being angry with him—instead of his allegedly _adoring _girlfriend. Additionally, John is rather opposed to kleptomaniacs, so it's only a matter of time before that moral conflict crops up.

Feeling slightly reassured, Sherlock begins to cut John a slice of cake.

He's fine, things are going to be just fine. Laura will evaporate into the air like so many others before her and John will once again happily spend all of his time with Sherlock. John has had many girlfriends in the past that have come and gone along with the seasons and passing holidays, so why should this one be any different? Sherlock thinks back to Mrs. Hudson words from earlier_: "To be quite honest, I doubt that girl is going to last very long." _Perhaps it's only because he desperately wants it to be true, but Sherlock can't help but notice that all of the facts certainly do point to this conclusion.

And besides: when has Mrs. Hudson ever been wrong?

* * *

**IMPORTANT MESSAGE:**

**Hey guys! So, first I'll thank anyone who has commented/criticized because you've honestly been what's kept me so focused on this story. However, I have a request for the rest of you lovely readers: share your thoughts on the story! As an author it's very helpful to know if the readers like the direction things are going or have suggestions/constructive criticism they'd like to offer.**

**And to be honest, I'm figuring this story out as I go, so I am very open to suggestions.**

**So from now on, please help me out by answering some (if not all) of these Q's:**

**-Would you guys prefer frequent updates but shorter chapters or less frequent updates with longer chapters (what I'm currently doing)?**

**-Any particular scenes/tropes you'd like to see? (For example: "Caretaker!John scene where Sherlock is hurt" or, I don't know, "John finds out about Sherlock's passion for dancing—Johnlock slow dance ensues" or something like that. I can't guarantee I'll use it, but the input would be tremendously helpful.**

**-Any character interactions you'd like to see? I already plan on some more Sherlolly friendship scenes and plenty of Mycroft/Sherlock interactions. (For example: " John and Harry, Lestrade and Mycroft, Mycroft and John" etc etc etc**

**-Side ships you'd like to see? (I'm not partial to anything right now, so I'm very open to suggestions. Obviously Johnlock is the main ship, so pick something else! :) Example: Mystrade, Lestrolly, Molly/OC, Mycroft/OC etc**

**-What do you like about this story (whether it is the plot, my writing style, the characterizations, etc, criticize away) and what do you think I can improve on? (tbh the latter half of this question is way more important! Concrit is necessary for improvement!)**

**Side note: Just fyi I plan on really drawing this story out—don't worry Johnlock is still endgame—because to me, the journey is the best part, not the destination. :)**

**Though, I can tell you that there may or may not be a particularly interesting scene coming up soon-ish. *coughcoughJohnlockkisscough***

**Okay, thank you so much! Until next time, darlings! X0X0**


	5. Of Cuddles and Caretaking

**A/N: Hey guys! So first I'd just like to thank all of you that took the time to review and give me feedback, because it has helped me immensely in writing this chapter and mapping out the entire story. From now on, updates will be weekly: every Sunday. I thought about shortening the word count since the updates will be more regular, but I ended up writing my usual 8.5k anyway. So, yay! Frequent updates and high word count! :D It was my intention to upload this yesterday, but life happened and I couldn't, so here we are! Hopefully this lovely, mega-fluffy, cuddle-filled chapter will make up for it.**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

_"__Sherlock."_

"John, just a minute more and we've got him! Patience." Sherlock says insistently.

"It's cold," John snaps in response, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

The two of them are currently huddled behind several trash bins in an alleyway, staring at a flat building across the street and waiting for a man named Augustus Lloyd to approach the front door. Meanwhile, John is complaining and shivering as if they are in the Arctic Tundra instead of an alley on Ralor Street. Admittedly, the air is a bit chill and the damp floor beneath them is less than comfortable, but all of that is hardly relevant when they are mere minutes from detaining a drug lord.

In Sherlock's opinion, the most thrilling part of this stakeout is the deafening anticipation of apprehending the leader of a drug cartel. Adrenaline laced with excitement roars in his ears and sets his nerve endings ablaze. His mouth is practically twitching with the urge to open wide and spew the hundreds of deductions he's made about this case from the sparse information they found in files alone. Looking through the documents the Yard had collected on the this man—Mr. Lloyd—was surprisingly enlightening, but he'd forced himself to hold onto his brilliant torrent of deductions until the actual apprehension of the drug lord was about to take place. Now, with mere minutes standing between that moment and the present, he can barely contain himself.

However, John does not seem to share the excitement. John would rather worry himself with something as mundane as_ weather_ rather than the deliciously intriguing case splayed out before them like a Christmas feast.

"Sherlock, it's bloody freezing and we've been out here for two hours now!"

Sherlock huffs and unthinkingly throws his arm around John's shoulders, pulling John underneath his coat and flush against his body. "There. Warmth. Now hush up." His voice comes out sounding quite typical in its impatience and absentmindedness, which Sherlock finds very impressive considering the internal chaos that immediately breaks out the moment John touches him.

John begrudgingly huddles further into him and stops complaining, which pleases Sherlock immensely.

A rather innocuous-looking mailman parks his truck and emerges with a package. To the uninformed eye he is a mere civil servant taking the late shift to dutifully deliver a parcel—but Sherlock knows better. This man is none other than one of London's biggest drug lords. Sherlock grins, adrenaline coursing through his veins at the prospect wrapping up this case.

"John, in exactly four and a half minutes that man—tall, bearded, and a bit spindly—will walk up to the front door holding what appears to be a package from a relative—he's even gone through the trouble of covering it with all kinds of silly, trite stamps only a loved one would use—and he will place it on the porch after knocking a message in Morse code on the door. Obviously that package contains a variety of narcotics, and the bearded man is none other than the infamous drugs dealer, Augustus Lloyd. If you were wondering, which I am sure you were, I figured out the Morse code bit by sifting through his files and phone history and noticing that despite his frequent correspondence with Pete Carson—a drug connoisseur, if you will, and his current customer—there were little to no actual written words between the two. Many of his habits and tendencies lean towards 'old fashioned' even though he is quite young, so one could only reasonably draw the conclusion that they would use lights, knocking, or any other form of Morse to communicate with each other.

"The message will be a number: the amount of drugs in the aforementioned package and a date which I assume will be a deadline for his payment. This man that we are dealing with is widely sought, well-known, and impeccably guarded most of the time—he typically surrounds himself with several armed men to protect him. Not too surprising if you work in the drugs business—addicts can be messy, desperate things when they're starving for a fix. However we are privy to a rare opportunity; he is currently quite vulnerable as this particular drug exchange is one he thought would be kept very tightly under wraps and wouldn't necessitate body guards. Now that we have him right where we want him we will have the brilliant opportunity to finally capture him and begin the slow process of tearing down his drug empire brick by brick—"

John turns away to cough into the crook of his elbow, the sound rattling and low. Sherlock falls dead silent and turns to stare at him with wide, owlish eyes. After John recovers moments later, he clears his throat and rasps, "Sorry, you were say—"

"No." Sherlock snaps, immediately transitioning from excited to completely sober. "No, that's unimportant now. Why didn't you tell me you were sick? We've been sitting out here in sodding freezing weather on an alley floor covered in germs and you're_ sick,_ John!"

John stares back at him, completely thrown by his reaction. "Wha—you said the weather was irrelevant not twenty minutes ago! Why are you worrying over it now?"

"Because, John, you are _sick_. I didn't know you were ill when I said the weather was irrelevant, alright? It is most certainly not irrelevant anymore."

John starts to reply, but another cough interrupts him and he is forced to once again turn away and hack into his jacket sleeve. Once the painful-sounding onslaught comes to a gasping, breathless end, John runs his hands over his face and blows air out of his mouth in defeat. "Right, yes, I may have a cold."

Without intending to, Sherlock squeezes John closer to him, his gloved hand resting securely at John's waist. "Phone," demands Sherlock.

"What?"

"My phone, I gave it to you, remember? You borrowed it to text someone before we left and I insisted you just hold onto it."

John removes the mobile from his pocket and hands it to Sherlock. "Okay, fine, but why?"

**_Sent at 10:15pm_**

_Lestrade, John is sick. The address is 385C Ralor Street. Arrest Lloyd and his customer. His only weapon is a crowbar and his truck is filled with around fifty-thousand pounds worth of Cocaine. This should be easy enough even for you lot. SH_

"Come now, John." Sherlock says, rising from his crouched positon. He makes sure to keep his fingertips brushing John's shoulder as John stands, partially to ensure he'll be there to catch John should he fall and partially out of the simple desire to maintain contact.

"We're going after him now? I thought you said in four minutes?"

Sherlock adjusts the collar of his coat and ushers John out of the alleyway and onto the pavement. "I texted Lestrade, the Yard can handle it. We're going home."

"_What?"_ exclaims John. "You haven't shut up about this case for three days—why are we leaving before we've caught him? There's hardly anything left to do before this whole thing is wrapped up I'm sure whatever it is you're running to can wait."

"It can't," replies Sherlock succinctly.

"Wha—"

John doesn't have a chance to finish because Sherlock immediately cuts him off by hailing a cab and pulling him inside. Without thinking, he tugs John close to his side, absently rubbing his arms to keep him warm.

"221B Baker Street," he tells the cabbie. John resumes his protesting but Sherlock tunes it out in favor of the frantic, upset thoughts running rampant through his mind.

God—he is such a bloody fool, how had he not noticed John was sick? Yes, admittedly the case was rather engrossing so it isn't too surprising that all else faded into white noise, but surely he should have remained adept enough to realize that John wasn't just complaining for the sake of complaining, he was doing so because he was _sick._ Sherlock should have paid attention to the sniffles and the coughing and all other signs that clearly pointed to his illness.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell happened back there that made you want to leave?" John asks, sounding both exasperated and confused.

Sherlock exhales noisily and tightens his grip on John, which John either hasn't noticed or is choosing to ignore. "You are sick, John," he says slowly. "Sitting out there any longer would risk worsening your condition."

"It's just a cold, Sherlock! I'm fine, okay?"

"You're sick."

"But the case!"

Sherlock resolutely looks ahead. "The Yard can handle the arrest just fine. Like you said, the case was pretty much wrapped up already. I doubt even they could muck it up."

When the cab stops in front of their building, Sherlock tugs John from his seat by the material of his sleeve. "Come on, you need to get out of these clothes. They're all wet and cold."

John gives him an annoyed look. Then he glances back at the waiting driver. "Are you going to pay the cabbie or shall I?"

Sherlock huffs an annoyed breath and calls over his shoulder, "Familia supra Omnia."

The cabbie nods once then drives off. John turns to stare at Sherlock in bewilderment. "So, are random Latin phrases and money suddenly interchangeable?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and marches up the steps to unlock the front door. "Of course not. It is simply a code that Mycroft has given me should I ever require something without having the money to get it. But," he says with a grin, flashing his generously filled wallet, "sometimes it's fun to use just because."

"What does that phrase mean?"

"'Family over everything'" Sherlock deadpans. "How achingly sentimental of him."

As they walk up the steps to their flat, John still seems a bit puzzled about their arrangement. "So you mean to say that works with more than just cabs? You could just waltz into a shop and say some random Latin phrase, and everything would be free?"

Sherlock snorts and pushes open the door. "Hardly. It only works in certain establishments; the cab services of London happen to be one such establishment. Of course, he changes the phrase every day so that some random stranger couldn't use it to his advantage should he overhear me. But, that is unimportant. What is important is you going to bed. Goodnight."

"I'm a grown man, Sherlock, I don't need you to tell me when my bed time is."

Sherlock makes an annoyed sound and sweeps into the kitchen, hands busily shuffling through the cabinets in search of tea bags. "Fine. I won't tell you anything. I will however give you this very considerately prepared cup of chamomile tea that you would be rude to refuse."

John sighs and collapses into his chair. "Fine. Why are you so concerned, though? Surely you know I'm in no life threatening condition right now."

"Of course I know that," Sherlock replies from inside the kitchen. "But right now your body is weakened and therefore susceptible to viruses far less benevolent than a simple cold. I'd rather not risk you getting any sicker."

He can't see John's expression, but from his tone he can tell that is fairly surprised by Sherlock's concern. "Well…thanks. For looking out for me, I mean."

He makes a noncommittal sound in response and busies himself with making tea. It's actually a bit relaxing, so he can almost understand why John enjoys preparing it so regularly. Once the hot water has been poured into cups, the tea bags steeping, and milk and sugar have been added to their respective drinks, he carries the tray into the sitting room. "Drink up."

John smiles and takes the cup from the tray, breathing in the sweet steam for a moment before taking a sip. "Mm, this is quite good actually." John eyes him over the brim of his cup. "Perhaps you ought to do this more often."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his own tea, reasonably pleased with the flavor. "Yours tastes much better," says Sherlock honestly. "Mine is a bit too perfect, I believe. Too precisely calculated. Tea is apparently suited for imperfection."

John grins. "So you're perfect and I'm not?"

Sherlock returns the smile and nods. "Oh, yes. But I find that your imperfection has its own kind of flawlessness. I like it."

John's smile grows into something lovely and warm, crinkling the corners of his eyes and setting his dark blue irises alight. He doesn't say anything and neither does Sherlock, but they share the comfortable silence in peace, occasionally drinking their tea and exchanging warm glances.

Something delightful and feathery twists inside Sherlock's chest, and if he didn't know better he might even call it happiness. Quiet, content, happiness.

Eventually John rises to go to bed and Sherlock lets him, wondering in the back of his mind if his symptoms will worsen or improve in the morning. Judging by his rattling cough alone, he suppose they will have to get worse before they get better and disappear entirely. Knowing John will have difficulty falling asleep—due to the resurfacing migraine and ache in his chest from coughing—Sherlock stays downstairs and plays him a slow, sleepy ballad on his violin. He doesn't stop until he is certain John has dozed off, hours later.

* * *

The next morning, John ambles out of his room looking at bit like those undead creatures from a movie he'd once been coerced into watching (John had insisted it would be absolutely terrifying, but the entire premise was so unrealistic that it moved Sherlock to do little other than scoff).

Within about ten seconds of seeing him, Sherlock deduces that his 'cold' was actually an influenza virus in its early stages. John clearly intends to go to the clinic, which is ridiculous, but Sherlock decides he'd best stay quiet for the moment because John will most likely not react well to Sherlock telling him to get back in bed.

He continues to wordlessly examine his mold spores through his microscope while John stumbles around the sitting room, mumbling about a lost shoe. He says nothing when John puts his tie on lopsided and buttons his shirt too high, exposing about two inches of his abdomen. He even bites his tongue while John 'makes breakfast' in the manner of a blind, drunken person, only intervening when John puts two Tupperware lids in the toaster and nearly burns their kitchen down.

"You alright there, John," Sherlock asks, though neither his intent nor tone poses it as a question. The answer is already quite obvious.

"Mm, just peachy," he rasps, his voice scratchy and low from coughing all morning. "Well, off to work."

"You have the flu, John. You're not going to work." Sherlock announces absently, far too engrossed in his examination of spores to humor John's ridiculous antics. Of course he's staying home. There's no use in arguing over it.

"It's just a little cold, Sherlock. Hardly a reason to stay home," John assures. He walks over to the coatrack, pulls on his jacket, grabs his keys—and then promptly turns around and empties the contents of his stomach inside a potted plant, invalidating any possible claims of good health.

"John!" Sherlock leaps up, sending his precious mold cultures flying in all directions. He temporarily pushes his worry (for the spores) aside in favor of a bigger and more important worry (for John). He's at John's side in seconds, hooking his arms underneath the other man's armpits and helping him stand properly.

"I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm fine!" John insists, swaying slighting on his feet. "Let go!" After receiving several indignant swats for his troubles, Sherlock finally releases John so he can stand unsupported. John puts his hand against the wall to steady himself, aiming for a casual leaning pose and missing it entirely.

John clears his throat and repeats, "I'm fine."

"I believe that plant would beg to differ," replies Sherlock evenly.

"I _need_ to go to work," insists John.

"No, you _need_ to stay home," Sherlock corrects. "You're not going to work."

"Sherlock, I am a doctor I know when I need to—"

"John." Sherlock interrupts, "Are you telling me that vomiting into a plant is something normal and unremarkable?"

"No, but—"

"Right, and are you telling me that it does not indicate sickness?"

"Well, it does but—"

"Thought so. If I just vomited into that plant would you let me run off on a case?"

"Of course not but—"

"Precisely. Then there's one mystery solved: You are sick and therefore staying home."

"But—"

"But nothing. Please get back in bed."

"And if I don't?"

Sherlock flares his nostrils and stares up at the ceiling. _Why_ is John being so difficult? "Then I shall be forced to carry you there. I have no qualms about man-handling you, so do not think I am bluffing."

_Oh, if only John knew how true that was_, murmurs a wry voice that sounds irritatingly like Mycroft. _Shut up,_ Sherlock thinks. He absolutely does not have the time to daydream about…manhandling John.

John sighs testily. "Sherlock, I appreciate the concern, I really do, but I can't afford to miss another day of work, okay? And don't worry about me being contagious, I don't plan on taking any patients today, just paperwork. I'm sure you've forgotten or deleted this or whatever, but we have to pay bills and rent to live here, and I can't very well accomplish either if I fail to show up at my job."

A brief spark of panic surges through Sherlock's chest. Yes, it's just the flu right now, but this can easily progress into a much graver, possibly fatal illness if it is not dealt with properly, and there is absolutely no way Sherlock is going to allow even the slightest chance of John's condition worsening if he can help it.

"John. Bed."

John opens his mouth to argue, but Sherlock doesn't give him the chance because he immediately takes advantage of John's unsteady stance and sweeps him up in his arms. Carrying John bridal style, he begins marching him upstairs to his room. Initially, It's not too difficult because John goes limp in disbelief—apparently he hadn't trusted Sherlock when he said he wasn't bluffing—but the task becomes considerably more challenging when the shock wears off and he begins protesting, both physically and verbally. Despite his small stature John is actually rather strong; the only reason Sherlock manages to hold onto him is because the flu has weakened what would normally be some very painful swats.

"Let me down! What the hell are you—_how?"_ John cries, dumbfounded, still batting uselessly at Sherlock's arms. Sherlock pointedly ignores him. "How are you…how are you able to carry me?"

"You're petite," replies Sherlock nonchalantly. It takes every ounce of self-control to suppress the smile threatening to take over his face. He's well aware that John—tough soldier, competent doctor, and unshakable flat mate—will not appreciate being called 'petite' because of the feminine connotations, but in truth Sherlock finds that it is the only word that correctly expresses his delightful smallness. The only other word he can think of that has a similar meaning is far too distasteful and juvenile—cute—so this'll do. Petite. Yes, it has a lovely ring to it.

"_What_ did you just call me?" John asks, indignation coloring his features.

Sherlock clears his throat and bites down another smile. "I said, I'm stronger than I look."

John knows this is a lie, but he doesn't seem too inclined to hear the word 'petite' again, so he just nods. "I don't suppose there's a chance you'll let me walk the rest of the way up myself?"

"I don't suppose there is," replies Sherlock, heaving the two of them up yet another step. Christ, has the staircase to John's room always been this long?

"Sherlock—"

"You can barely stand, let alone hike up a flight of stairs. We're almost there, so hush up."

John ignores him. "I really don't understand why you're carrying me like we just got bloody married and this is our honeymoon."

"Would you rather I tossed you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes? We've still got a considerable amount of steps left, I can always change positions if you like."

John grunts out a negative response and after a moment his body relaxes in resignation. He sighs tiredly and carefully rests his head against the junction of Sherlock's neck and shoulder. "If you tell anyone that you carried me like this I will deny it till I'm blue in the face, understand?"

"Indeed."

"Wouldn't do great things for the "Intimidating army doctor" image I have going, you know."

"Quite."

John huffs a tired laugh and allows his head to drop entirely against Sherlock's shoulder, his eyelids drooping. "Mm, thank you, though. I don't believe I was in any state to walk up the stairs."

Sherlock snorts. "Of course not. And there you were, ready to go to work. You know, doctors really are the worst patients, always assuming they're the exception to ailments that they'd easily recognize in a patient but refuse to acknowledge in themselves."

John chuckles into his shoulder, but the material of Sherlock's dressing gown muffles the sound. "You're not exactly a joy to tend to when you're sick either, just so you know."

Sherlock sniffs indignantly. "I know for a fact I've only been ill twice in the time that you've known me."

"Ah, yes, but those two times were right nightmares," says John, without malice. His eyes are bright with amusement and fondness. "You didn't eat the chicken soup, flat out refused to get any rest, and wouldn't even lie down in bed until you had at least four spoonfuls of codeine cough syrup in your system."

Sherlock smirks. "If you think that's bad, you ought to tend to Mycroft when he's ill."

"Mycroft? Ill? It sounds strange, but I honestly can't imagine him sick. Seems like he would consider it far too pedestrian."

"Oh, he most certainly does. That hardly makes him immune, though. When Mycroft is sick he is reduced to a blubbering puddle of loud complaints and endless requests for more biscuits. He seems to endeavor to break the world record for whining and bemoaning his own state each time he falls ill. It would be impressive if it weren't so utterly annoying."

John laughs at that, his eyes sparkling despite the faint cloudiness the flu has brought to his irises. Finally, they reach the top of the staircase and ultimately John's room. Sherlock considers putting John down right here in front of the door since he's certainly strong enough to make it to his bed, but then thinks better of it. He rather likes carrying John, so he'll take any excuse available to continue doing so.

He nudges open the door with his foot and walks into the room, a faint smirk on his face as he recognizes how deeply this resembles the post-marital gesture of the groom carrying his bride through the threshold. He relishes the thought in the doorway for a moment before John clears his throat and says, "I think I can manage the next six steps, Sherlock."

Sherlock tries to quickly think of a reason why he shouldn't put John down but to his displeasure, comes up with nothing. With an internal sigh and an impeccable poker face, he carefully puts John down feet first so he can stand on his own.

John wobbles for a second, but immediately recovers. "Thanks for, uh, carrying me…" John says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock rolls his eyes as he guides John—without touching him; John doesn't want to be treated like an old man—over to the bed. "Honestly John, it isn't that big of a deal. I've carried you before."

John settles under the covers and stretches out his limbs. "Sure, but that was when I twisted my ankle that one time. You _had_ to carry me, otherwise we both would've had our legs blown off by the bomb. Hardly the same situation."

Sherlock shrugs. "You just vomited and had already been displaying clear signs of a migraine, meaning that your center of balance was off. Walking up a flight of stairs would have been difficult if not entirely too ambitious in your state. I did what I needed to do."

John looks at him. "I—okay. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods and then sweeps his gaze over John to assess his current condition. "Alright, my knowledge of medicine is quite limited, but I'd say you definitely have the flu. The fever has yet to hit, but it should be here soon. For now your symptoms are headache, vomiting, and fatigue, yes?"

John nods. "That sounds about right."

"Yes, well, then I suggest you sleep for now." Sherlock is rather impressed with how assured and confident his voice sounds, considering how utterly _un_confident he actually feels towards tending to John. It's one thing to carry him up some steps, but it's entirely another to help him through the towering fever and discomfort he'll soon experience. In all honesty, the task is rather daunting.

John, however, looks more amused than anything else. "Yes, I know. I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I'll shout if I need anything later, alright? For now I believe I will take your advice and sleep for a bit."

* * *

Two hour later, Sherlock is downstairs reorganizing his spilled mold cultures when he hears a very long, very unhappy, "_Sherlock."_

He drops his precious petri dishes (again!) and takes the stairs two at a time. "John, what is it?" He calls, worriedly. The room is too dark to clearly see him so Sherlock flicks on the light.

"Christ, my head…" John groans, throwing his forearm over his eyes. "Turn off the light, please, it's making this headache even worse."

Sherlock immediately flicks off the light switch again. "Better?"

John's form is still visible in the fading daylight spilling from the window, and Sherlock can see the outline of his nodding head. "Yeah, yeah much better. Thank you." He still sounds pained, though, and that makes Sherlock's entire body feel jittery and anxious with the desire to help him.

"John, _how do I fix you_?" Sherlock pleads, past the point of caring about eloquence. "Tell me right now. I—I remember hearing something about soup being helpful…or a wet flannel on the face or something?"

John coughs, a weak smile on his face. "Yeah, it's chicken soup, and that actually sounds quite nice right now. Probably the only thing I can hold down," he turns his face into the crook of his elbow to cough again. "The wet flannel is supposed to go on your forehead; it's meant to take a fever down. I don't think I have a fever, but I'm not exactly sharp as a tack at the moment so I suppose it wouldn't hurt to double check. Thermometer's in the bathroom cupboard, second shelf."

Once Sherlock has retrieved the thermometer and popped it underneath John's tongue, he stands above him, nervously wringing his hands at the side of the bed. "When will it be ready? Does it ding or something? I know it's electric, but—"

"Sh'lock," John attempts to say around the thermometer. "It'sh okay. I know wha' m' doin."

He nods and waits.

Several hundred decades later, the blasted thing finally beeps and John removes it from his mouth. "Alright, nothing too bad. Thirty-eight degrees; just a low fever. I should probably take some Paracetamol to keep it down."

Sherlock dashes away to get the medicine. When he returns, he anxiously watches John take the pills, illogically expecting the effect to be immediate.

"Sherlock," John rasps, "you act like you've never been around a sick person before. Calm down."

"I've been around several ill people in my life, John, I've just," he pauses, "I've just never attempted to take care of one before. I don't want to do it wrong."

The teasing look fades from John's face and his eyes soften. "You're doing fine."

After a few minutes, drowsiness returns and John falls into another deep sleep. Sherlock carries his mold spores upstairs so he can work with them in the hallway outside John's door, that way he is nearby in case John needs anything.

. . .

When John wakes up again, it's half past five and Sherlock's beautiful mold cultures are restored to their formal glory. "Sh-sherlock" John calls from within the room.

"John?" he says, pushing open the door. "Can I turn on the light?"

"Y-yes."

"Why do you sound like that?" Sherlock asks, immediately concerned.

"I'm c-cold, Sh-sherlock." John stutters, his teeth chattering together as if he were in an icebox instead of his warm bed. With wide, worried eyes Sherlock dashes over to the side of his bed.

"How do I make you any warmer, John? I've already put all our blankets in here and I don't think a hot bath would be a good idea since you said temperature preference fluctuates during the flu. If I put you in hot water, your fever might return and then you'll wish to be cold again. Maybe I could—I don't know—maybe," Sherlock pauses to articulate himself. "Would body heat help? It's temporary enough to remove quickly if necessary, unlike a hot bath or something of that sort."

John nods and reaches an arm out blindly for Sherlock. "Yeah. Yes, c-come here."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he hesitates, frozen in place. In all honesty he hadn't really believed John would be willing to take his suggestion; it was only on a feeling of spontaneity that he decided to voice it at all. The fact that John is now requesting to—for lack of a better term—cuddle with Sherlock is so absolutely incredible that for a single, solitary moment Sherlock's mind is wiped completely blank.

"Sh-Sherlock?" asks John, into the silence, his hand still outstretched.

"Right." He walks over and settles himself beside John in the bed, leaving a few inches between them, and wonders how he should start this. Does he just…just reach out and pull John to him? Or should he lay across John's chest? Or…?

"Shut up," says John.

Sherlock is shaken from his contemplations at that. He looks over at John in alarm. "What?"

"Your overthinking is getting a b-bit loud over there." And with that, John reaches over and pulls Sherlock into what could be considered a hug, except for the fact that they're laying horizontally. John curls himself into Sherlock, his forehead pressed into Sherlock's collarbones. Carefully, Sherlock splays a hand across John's back.

"Is this better?" He asks tentatively.

"Mm." John replies, nuzzling his face against the silky material of Sherlock's dressing gown. "Closer. You're so warm," John mutters sleepily. He reaches around to wrap his arm over Sherlock's back and tugs him closer, squeezing him as if were some kind of giant stuffed animal. (Not that Sherlock is complaining, of course.)

The increase in proximity leaves Sherlock with the option of either resigning himself to leg cramps later, or tossing his left leg over John's and allowing himself to stretch. John snuggles even closer—Jesus, any nearer and they are going to melt into one being—and Sherlock decides that since John seems willing enough, he might as well get comfortable. Without further thought, he hooks his leg over John's and adjusts himself so they fit together like puzzle pieces.

Even though John is dozing off—or possibly already asleep—Sherlock wonders if he can hear his heartbeat, considering how loud and frantic it currently is. This is wonderful, absolutely wonderful, but a part of Sherlock aches for even more, which is greedy since this precious bit of intimacy should be more than enough. This of course isn't to say he is not grateful—because he truly is—but he can't help but yearn for John to do something like this when he isn't half asleep or sick or so hopped-up on fever medicine that he'd just as likely cuddle with bloody _Mycroft._ The simple truth of the matter is this: He wants John to want him. Really _want_ him.

He knows John is an affectionate person by nature, so he's always tried not to take moments like this as anything more than they are, but sometimes he finds himself questioning if perhaps they do signify more than platonic fondness. Though he himself has never bothered with ideas of what is normal and what isn't, he's socially-aware enough to know that typically, male friends do not engage in such intimate actions with each other. A solid clap on the back is one thing, or perhaps a quick, gruff hug now and then, but Sherlock is fairly certain that normal, platonically-involved blokes don't cuddle in bed with their limbs intertwined like vines.

Then again, his friendship with John has always been several shades from 'normal'; even at a passing glance, their strangeness is easily exhibited through their dangerous lifestyle, collective quirks and oddities, and the fact that John would be more surprised to find fruit in the crisper than disembodied thumbs and mold cultures. Their lack of normalcy isn't too surprising: one is an unsociable, former drug addict and self-proclaimed genius and the other is a danger-hungry invalidated army doctor with a penchant for jumpers and handguns. They are an odd pair by nature, so he supposes it only makes sense that their relationship would be a bit different from everyone else's. They can't help the fact that being very close to each other—physically and figuratively—is what comes natural.

It is because of these moments of thoughtless, easy intimacy that people always assume they are 'together': John's fingers laced with Sherlock's as they run, a hand at the small of John's back to usher him forward, or the generally close proximity they always keep between each other.

And Sherlock does not mind it one bit—he rather likes when people assume they're a couple and makes a point never to correct them—but he can't help but feel a slight pang in his chest every time he hears it. He is well aware that it is greedy to want more than the easy going, intimate companionship he currently has with John, but the heart wants what it bloody wants and no amount of cool logic will quell it.

John mumbles something in his sleep and tightens his grip around Sherlock. "Mm, warm…"

Sherlock smiles into John's hair and decides that if this is all he is going to get for now, he'll damn well make the most of it. With a languid sigh, he pulls John closer and allows his eyelids to flutter shut. He only intends to have a quick kip, but the smell of cinnamon and the delicious, lazy warmth of this embrace lull Sherlock into a deep, pleasant slumber right along with John.

* * *

The third time John wakes up, the fever has broken and the color is beginning to return to his cheeks. However, the headache and remains, so Sherlock diplomatically pops down to Mrs. Hudson's to ask what he should give John next. Her solution happens to be three bright-colored pills that will eliminate the headache entirely and allow John to sleep easily.

However, there is something else rather notable about the Third Time John Wakes Up: in between his waking up and Sherlock's visit to Mrs. Hudson, the two of them are rather intimately intertwined. Sherlock wakes up in the same manner he always has—abruptly conscious and instantly alert—and he uses every moment of sharp focus to categorize and stow away every aspect of this moment. He builds an entirely new room in his mind palace dedicated solely to the feeling of waking up entangled with John.

Eventually John rouses too, but surprisingly he doesn't seem even slightly perturbed by their position. Instead he just mumbles "Move. Need to pee," and then rolls out of bed.

Once he returns he tumbles back under the covers, pressing into his temples with a pained expression. "Christ, this headache. There isn't much else to do, I left my stock of powerful pain medication at the clinic yesterday, so we don't have—"

Sherlock splays open his palm, wherein three pills sit in the center. "Mrs. Hudson said to give you these."

"Bless that woman," John mumbles, accepting the colorful capsules eagerly.

"They're quite powerful so you'll feel a bit, er, _'not yourself'_, I believe were her exact words."

"Yes, most pain medication will do that. Especially ones that contain antihistamine, like this. Oh well." He pops the pills into his mouth and then chases them with a large gulp of water.

Sherlock stares at him, waiting. John notices and rolls his eyes, "Sherlock, I'm not going to go loopy seconds after taking the medicine. It'll take away the pain and make me a bit drowsy later. Nothing more."

. . .

What John failed to explain was that "a bit drowsy" is actually code for "completely barmy".

Sherlock first notices something is wrong an hour after John has taken the pills, when he solemnly asks Sherlock, "Has that painting always spoken French?"

Sherlock glances away from his experiment and stares at John. "What?"

"There, right there." John points to the drab painting of a wheat field hanging against the wall. There isn't even a person in it.

"Er, John? What are you talking about?"

John tosses himself on his back and stares up at the ceiling with a dreamy smile. "Not sure. Was I just speaking French too? Sherlock, can you speak French? I know you can, I've heard you arguing in French with your brother, Microsoft, before."

Sherlock stares at John, the puzzle pieces falling together: the medicine is apparently making its grand appearance at last. With that figured out, he plucks his phone from his shirt pocket and gleefully composes a few texts.

**_Sent at: 7:05pm_**

_John has a delightful new nickname for you. I quite like it. SH _

**_Sent at: 7:06pm_**

_Though, I'm not sure if you'll care for it, Microsoft. SH_

Then, he tucks his phone away and returns his attention to John. "It's the pills, John. They're making you feel a bit odd. That painting is not speaking French, and neither are you."

John nods and settles himself further under the covers, almost like a little kid gaily wrestling in his freshly tucked-in bed sheets. "Tell me a story, Detective," he requests. "Make it a r_eallyreally_ good'n." His words start to slur a bit, and Sherlock cannot tell if it's due to the medication or his impending slumber.

He slowly moves over to John's bed, wondering what on earth he is going to tell him. When he finally settles himself at the edge of the bed, John taps his own forehead. "Pet my hair back while you tell the story. It's relaxing."

Sherlock obliges, raising his cool palm to John's warm forehead and stroking back into his soft, salt-and-pepper blonde hair. John hums appreciatively and melts into the bed, his eyes fluttering shut in contentment.

It hardly matters what he says since John won't remember any of this, so he just starts talking. "Once upon a time there was a very lonely boy. He was a genius and a scientist and he knew endless facts, but no one liked him very much. He didn't care, though; their approval wasn't important. The lonely boy grew into a lonely man and he still believed he didn't need anyone, up until the point when he met a brilliant, beautiful army doctor with an unnecessary cane and a mad addiction to danger." Sherlock smiles, threading his long fingers through John's hair soothingly. "The two of them rented a wonderful flat with a motherly landlady, and they went on many adventures together. For the first time the genius didn't feel alone, because unlike the others, the kind doctor stayed.

"Then, one day, something strange happened. Something warm and fuzzy started building in the genius's chest, something he'd never felt before in his life. It took him a very long time to realize that it was—" Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. "Love. But he wasn't sure if the doctor felt the same, so he locked it up in his mind and kept it a secret," he pauses, "the…the end, I suppose."

John frowns sleepily and stops Sherlock's moving hand with his own. He doesn't push it away, he just holds it within his hands near his chest. "That isn't a happy ending."

Sherlock sighs. "Not quite."

John holds up Sherlock's slack hand and blearily examines it. "I hope the doctor loves him too," he says, drowsily. He smiles dreamily and presses an earnest kiss to the center of Sherlock's palm. "Night."

Sherlock blinks for a few moments in surprise, allowing his limp hand to stay sandwiched between John's. "Yes, I hope so too," he finally says quietly, minutes later.

* * *

The medicine has a longer lasting effect than Sherlock originally imagined, because two hours later when they are curled up on the couch watching telly, John is still quite drowsy and delirious.

He managed to coax John out of bed and onto the couch, where John immediately demanded to watch something "action-y and explode-y", which was Sherlock's first hint that the pills had yet to wear off.

Sherlock had obliged, only to be stuck watching the stupid thing by himself since John fell asleep almost immediately after the film had started.

He can't begrudge his current position too much though, since John is curled up beside him like a wonderful, soft pillow. He happily ignores most of the movie in favor of brushing his fingers through John's hair and nuzzling the top of his head.

Onscreen, the ridiculous explosions finally stop, and the main bloke, the one with the steroid-induced muscles and three day old stubble, turns to face the leading woman with something Sherlock assumes is supposed to be lust. Although, with all of that lip biting and squinting, he seems to be in pain more than anything. The action music stops and in its place a cheesy, dramatic ballad begins to play. In painfully tedious slow motion, they run at each other, each shouting the others name in an overly-exaggerated manner. (Does it really take that long to say "Lucy" and "Ryan"?)

The song reaches its crescendo as the two kiss, the camera panning around them and catching every meeting of their lips. Sherlock fights the urge to throw the remote at the telly.

The woman on the scene tosses her head back in a dramatic show of ecstasy as the man licks his way up the length of her throat. Then, he latches onto the side of her neck and sucks—yes, actually _sucks_ like a bloody vampire—and she groans rather obscenely, forcing Sherlock to temporarily glance away in embarrassment.

"Does that actually feel good?" Sherlock asks aloud, staring back at the screen with mild disgust. "I mean, really, sucking the skin of another's neck sounds more repulsive than anything."

Sherlock isn't actually expecting a response since John is sound asleep, so when he hears a drowsy, slightly slurred, "Yeah, feels super great," seconds later, he's quite surprised.

"John?" Sherlock attempts to readjust himself so he can see John's face, but the sudden movement causes John's limp body to fall across his, leaving John's head in his lap. John opens his eyes blearily before settling his gaze on the underside of Sherlock's chin.

"Morning," John mumbles, absently petting Sherlock's chest.

"It isn't morning, John," corrects Sherlock, "It's eleven at night."

"You're right; you're a genius!" exclaims John, eyes widened in awe. "Of course you are, you're Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes. The consulting baker of Detective Street," he pauses and thinks it over, giggling. "Oh, that's quite wrong. I meant the_ only_ consulting baker. Only one in the whole world."

Sherlock stares down at him and debates whether or not he should force John back to bed or enjoy this while he can.

"You're quite pretty for a baker," muses John, reaching up to clumsily pat Sherlock's cheekbone.

"Thank you," replies Sherlock politely, immeasurably grateful that John is too delirious to recognize the dark, rosy flush spreading across his face. So…John's bedtime can wait a bit, yes? Because how often is it that he'll get to hear something like _that?_

They sit in silence for bit, Sherlock attempting not to think about John snuggled in his lap while John dozes on and off again, muttering nonsense under his breath and wriggling about restlessly. Finally after ten and a half minutes, John sits bolt upright, nearly knocking his head into Sherlock's in the process. John raises his eyebrows to his forehead, his expression a hyperbole of earnestness. "I broke things off with Laura, ya' know. Yesterday."

Sherlock scoots away so he can face John on the small, slightly cramped sofa. This is certainly news to him. "Yes?"

John nods his head so hard his teeth audibly click together. "Yup. She didn't fancy you one bit. Said you were—" he yawns,"—bad for me. Bad for my health because of all the dangerous bits during cases and bad for my social life because you 'repel future relationships'." John rolls his eyes exaggeratedly. "Her words, not mine. She also called you a clod—or was it _cod_? No wait that's a fish…" John puzzles over this with studious concentration, his brow furrowed in thought. After a minute's deliberation, John gravely concludes, "You may have been called a fish, Sherlock."

No longer bothering to hide his amusement, Sherlock smirks and makes a 'go on' gesture with his hands.

"Yes, anyway, after she said those mean bits about how you were bad for me, I told her that _she_ was bad for me and you were just fine. Then I broke it off."

A warm, saturated glow blossoms in Sherlock's chest and he finds himself inordinately pleased. A large, ridiculous grin is threatening to spread across his face when it occurs to him that perhaps he ought to feign sorrow for John's sake. That is typically what one does when a friend's relationship has ended, yes?

"Er—I'm quite sorry about that, John." Then he reaches out and pats John's shoulder for good measure.

John stares at Sherlock's hand on his shoulder. When he looks back at him, the silliness in his eyes has been replaced by something sincere. "I'm not sorry. Not one bit. She made me choose between the two of you, which was really stupid of her because I will always choose you."

Sherlock blinks. Instead of responding, he flexes his grip on John's shoulder, digging the pads of his fingertips in deeper, almost possessively. His mouth feels dry and his mind is a useless blank slate capable of processing only a single word: "Really?"

John nods drowsily, the medicine catching back up to him. "Can I have a hug now?" he manages to slur out. He begins leaning towards Sherlock without an answer, though Sherlock suspects this is due to his weak, sickened state and not his disregard for Sherlock's consent.

"Yes." Sherlock leans back against the far arm of the sofa and gathers a nodding-off John against his chest. When John is completely pressed into him, warm and pliant and ridiculously soft, Sherlock rests his chin on top of John's head and sighs.

All in all, Sherlock decides, this whole day has not been as difficult as he imagined. That isn't to say he'll join a queue for medical school any time soon, of course, but Sherlock certainly does not mind playing doctor as long as the day ends with _his_ doctor folded within his arms and smelling delightfully of cinnamon.

* * *

**A/N: And there you have it folks: Chapter five! Again, I have to thank you guys so much for reading, bookmarking, and reviewing this story. It honestly means the world :) As always, feedback is delicious encouragement that I welcome with open arms, so feel free to share! **

**Thanks for reading, loves, see you next Sunday! X0X0**


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